


Liberté

by larriebane



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Bottom Louis, Dark Harry, Drug Addiction, Famous Harry, Fluff, Frottage, Hate to Love, Historical References, M/M, Mention of Arranged Marriage, Mentions of Blood, Pirate Harry, Prince Louis, Sailing, Secret Identity, Top Harry, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a.k.a the golden age of piracy, always wanted to tag that, pirate ot4, side Ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-04-15 14:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4610109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larriebane/pseuds/larriebane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>AU. 1647. “Pretending you don’t have a heart is not the best way to not get it broken. It’s just the easiest.”<i></i></i>
</p><p>  Or the pirate AU I always wanted to write</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Queen Anne's Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****  
> [Russian translation in process!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9299225/chapters/21076628)  
> 
> 
> [Portuguese available too!](https://my.w.tt/Ku9lKJvnAK)
> 
> ****  
>  [Available in Italian](https://efpfanfic.net/viewstory.php?sid=3737423&i=1)   
> 

**__**

**_**** **_“Love looks not with the eyes,_ ** **_but with the mind,_ ** **_a_** ** _n_** ** _d therefore is winged Cupid p_** ** _ainted blind”_ ** _ **

 - William Shakespeare, _A Midsummer Night's Dream_

 

 

**London, 1647**

There was an unforgiving chilliness in the wind that disclosed the impending start of the fall when Louis walked with his friend, and soon-to-be-fiancé, in the palace’s neatly trimmed garden. The air smelled fresh after the rain that had fallen down that morning, making the nature shine a bit brighter before the unstoppable. And although the place was all about artificial shapes and patterns, there was something calming about being surrounded by so much green.

The prince's companion walked with calculated, graceful steps, her spine rigid thanks to the corset in order to maintain the desired pose of a young lady. And while it too felt staged and unnecessarily restrictive, even the limited contact he was allowed to have with her—just the touch of arms that were looped together—was nice and intimate.

Some of his discomfort also came from the chaperone trailing behind them, whose presence was noticeable only because of the small pebbles that crunched under her feet on every brisk step she took. It wasn’t like in the old days when he had been able to bait ‘El’ into running through the gardens barefooted, clothes stained by grass while laughing at the faces of the horrified adults.

 _Improper,_ as he had learned later. _Indecent._

Very few people had stopped to talk to them during their walk around the park, leaving them time to gaze at the exquisite flowerbeds that flanked the geometrical walkways around the white, slightly discoloured fountain in the middle of the garden that gave rise to a pleasant ripple of water. Dozens of the variously coloured flowers that still proudly presented their summer hues as good as pointed the right direction towards the stairs to the entrance of the estate they were walking towards. A gardener made a hasty bow when the prince and his lovely companion walked past the round hedge he had been trimming carefully.

“I quite like those lilies,” Eleanor observed, pointing at the bright orange kind. Even though Louis doubted she knew the names for any of the trees or plants, she was very keen on pointing out the most pretty - and apparently most French flowers. It had become dizzying to keep up with, and Louis sighed in relief once they stepped off the narrower path and onto the main walkway. “They remind me of the French lace I got sewn into my newest gown. I would love for you to see it, Louis.”

The prince hummed non-committal. “Oh, yes. I shall look forward to seeing it at the Harvesting Ball. Orange is one of my personal favourites, like sunset.”

He said it almost forcedly politely, the words sounding stiff only to himself when coming from his mouth and past his lips that had been trained to vocalize mundane wishes and everyday pleasantries for the past decade. But it had come out with renew vigour, for the palace and its entrance loomed few hundred feet before them.

The estate of the Hampton Court palace was a sight to behold: the distinct contrasting architectural styles, the domestic pink bricks and the symmetrical, successive low wings bathed in the rare but welcome sunshine. Due to his father's and grandfather's greed, it had been built to represent Versailles, but only the garden managed to awe the prince - perhaps because a park did not have four walls. A tall, dark nobleman twirling his cane descended the detailed stone staircase that led down the entrance and walked towards them. As he gradually came nearer, Louis tensed.

“Lord Isaac Boyd,” Eleanor whispered into his ear, familiar with Louis’ troubles – and distaste for –remembering all the noblemen in the court. He squeezed her hand in gratitude as he angled his chin subtly as a greeting when the lord, one of those they called ‘New Money’, walked past them, tipping his flamboyant hat.

“I don’t quite understand him,” Eleanor whispered to him once the man was out of earshot. “Usually those who have gained their fortune by trade are less ostentatious. I do not like when he so pompously shows off his money. And all those gambling debts-” she broke off with a breathy whisper.

Louis stopped himself from looking back at the scandalous nobleman as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He tightened his hold on her arm and trailed his other hand along the railing when they started to ascend the steps. “At least he has earned his money fairly.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Eleanor stopped them at the top of the stairs for a breather – it wasn’t acceptable for a fine lady to exercise or sweat, and even though most of the rules weren’t targeted towards his sex, Louis felt caged inside all these rules. The most exotic lands he had travelled were unfortunately just works of his imagination, having to picture the remote countries by how they were described in those books his father brought from his travels.

“Well,” the prince started, “I have rather enjoyed our walk, Ms. Calder. I shall see you again, soon.”

He brought her glowed hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss there, feeling the quickening pulse of her dainty hand but it, again, failed to rouse the feeling inside him his mother and father had talked about. Being with her didn’t feel like being struck by a spell.

He left her standing there and with an impish wink towards the chaperone, Louis walked through the double doors that were opened by two servants in matching uniforms. His steps ricocheted in the high-ceilinged corridors as he headed to his chambers.

Louis hated how love wasn’t an important factor in royal marriages. He wouldn’t indulge into a sham of a union whose only meaning was to look good on the family tree and please the public – whether aesthetically or financially or just simply to give the air of a strong alliance with a neighbouring country. _Make us look strong._ But how strong would they really be if the king and queen were unable to share a bed for longer than the absolute necessity? Louis shuddered. Though, it was clear from his father's behaviour and insisting that he believed Louis would grow to love Ms Calder like his father had grown to love his mother.

“Is it bad that I still don’t feel like asking for her hand in marriage?” he asked from his valet once he was standing before a mirror, inside his own quarters, stripped from all the pretence he kept up all day – and sometimes the nights as well.

“Maybe his Highness hasn’t found the right one, yet,” Stan said. Louis regarded them through the gilded-framed mirror.

The prince smoothed down his hair self-consciously, trying to make it seem it hadn't been ruffled by the wind. His father, and the rest of the court, preferred the children not to look messy. If one did not wish to wear a wig, one should know how to control one's hair, they had always said. Other than that, Louis was not surprised what he saw there. His own pale face, his smooth chin that had yet to start growing beard, his thin lips and his blue eyes under his currently judgmentally angled brows. But even though his clothes were made to flatter, he did not look regal.

What he saw from the mirror was a young boy bored to death, and while he still recognized the old sparkle of mischief, it had gradually dimmed, now discernible only in the subtle crinkles in the corner of his eyes—a token of the times he had been allowed to be himself. He soon looked elsewhere - and watched the angles of his friend’s round face; the lashes that weren’t particularly different from a woman’s; his mouth which was distinctly thinner and rougher-looking than Ms. Calder’s plump lips that looked shiny with spit he was nowhere near ready to exchange with her. Louis averted his gaze from the mirror for good, frowning.

“Why do you constantly continue to act like I haven’t already asked you to stop speaking like I’m not in this very room with you?”

“ _Because_ you’re the crown prince of England and therefore my superior.” Stan tugged Louis’ waist coat for the last time, his fingers ticking the prince’s sensitive sides. He brushed some non-existent lint with a swift flick of his hand.

“His High- _you’re_ presentable for dinner.”

Louis nodded, moving his shoulders a bit because of the uncomfortable pressure of the unwieldy texture of the new coat. “Hopefully my father won’t expect more walks and courting from me. I have done my part of the deal by chattering about _French_ this and _French_ that for the past one hour and a half.”

“His Majesty is merely looking out for you, Sir. His lordship has left Ms. Calder quite the dowry. Eighty thousand guineas, wasn’t it?”

Louis barely managed to refrain from snorting at the awe in Stan’s voice. “And Good heavens if my father can’t have that when our marriage is consummated. England would fall.” Sarcasm had always been one of his most persistent vices. Stan gave him one of his patented disapproving glances.

“Whenever his Highness is ready to start acting like a royal, he can join the rest of his family in the dining hall. Your father has demanded for your immediate presence.”

                                                                                                              

 

“The seaborne trade is getting costly,” his father lamented during dinner. “I thought our economy was doing well since we commandeered that island from Spain but it appears that the buccaneers have grown in power in French Tortuga. Corsairs are after the treasures again; an English ship that was laden with gold and valuables was attacked by the outlaws – no survivors, no gold left. Last week it was the silk from our colonies in the East Indies. Their thirst for wealth is insatiable!”

The outburst was of course caused by a sealed letter a servant had brought on a silver platter just moments ago. His father’s face had gone purple and Louis had lifted his goblet just before his fist hit the walnut table with inlays of gold and marquetry, shaking the jelly on the middle of the silverware and candelabras.

“Was it the Crimsonblade again, papa?” asked Félicité, the middle child. She had always held a guilty kind of fascination towards the outlaws.

In response, their father carded his fingers through his dark blonde hair that had started to recede within these past five years – Louis was only slightly guilty to confess that he had been the reason for a premature grey hair or two.

“Unfortunately there are others who manage to take us by surprise. They prevent our nation’s power from spreading wider, from developing our colonial empires. We shall double the amount of the raids. The French have found recapturing loos profitable enough. But those ruddy colonial officers of West Indies are defending them as it is, apparently, ‘very harsh to hang people that bring in gold to their provinces’.”

“I heard the pirates aboard _Mary Anne_ were too drunk to fight,” Lottie giggled, enjoying sharing this conspiratorial piece of rumour. “And Crimsonblade reputedly invaded Port of St. David’s without firing a shot!”

“Charlotte!” their mother hissed to her eldest daughter who quickly dropped her gaze into her lap, cheekbones flaming.

Louis found himself chewing his food mechanically without actually acknowledging what he had put in his mouth. He set his silver cutlery down beside his almost full plate and waited until after a servant had finished refilling his glass, before he addressed the participants of the dinner table.

“Mama, papa,” he said, gaining their attention. He fidgeted in his chair under his father’s stern look. “I want to travel somewhere.”

“May I ask why?” his father inquired suspiciously – and not without reason as his eldest had come up with most cunning excuses and propositions about trips to get liberation from courting the youngest daughter of Lord Calder.

 _No immediate prohibition,_ Louis' mind added. This was as good time as any. “To actually try out all the languages I’ve learned-”

“You will once you’re the King. It’s part of diplomacy.”

“I’m already eighteen and I haven’t even _seen_ -”

The King’s hand rose between them, cutting off Louis’ further arguing. The young prince had always had a hard time biting his tongue, often being punished for his impertinent statements in the hopes of getting him tamed. The proper calligraphy of a formal letter had been hard enough to drill into him, not to mention the proper manners that were more prone to cave in due to his intense nature.

“Yes, we are aware of that, Louis. _But_ at eighteen one should be looking for a suitable partner; fortunately in your case, that’s not a priority. Ms. Calder is a wonderful young lady who will make a wonderful wife and even more wonderful Queen. Still, you should engage yourself in the variety of social activities more often – attend all masquerades you have been invited to – in order to show the public what kind of man will rule the country after me.”

“And this ‘engaging’ is not possible in a foreign country?” he asked dexterously, shooting a pleading glance over the table at her mother who had always been the easier one of them; had had a closer connection to her son. Her kind eyes held an apology that told Louis she had no power over the King.

His parents shared a look. The King grunted at the end of the large table.

“All right,” his father started in his diplomatic, compromising voice. “My dear friend, King Henri of France could take you to his custody for a few months. How does that sound?”

Dull. But maybe when he was in the foreign country, there would be fewer rules that concerned him. Besides, the King was a nice man with intelligent green eyes, long dark hair and aristocratic lineaments as he had seen on a painting that hung on their gallery. It was of Louis’ father and him on a fox hunting trip and Louis had heard enough of _those_ that he knew the Frenchman could provide some _fun_.

“Splendid,” he agreed swiftly.

He should have known it had sounded far too good to be true, until: “On one condition; you take Preston with you.”

 

                                                                                                                       

 

Preston was a large man of muscular physique with hairy forearms, and whose only evident purpose was to scare the buccaneers away, in Louis’ mind. His stern glances, continuing snooping and barking on the other hand, managed to frighten off even the prince’s pleasure as the carriage bumped on the unsteady, muddy ground of the street that led to the docks.

“You seem exited today, your Highness,” he remarked as they neared the Thames. “Looking forward to your first journey abroad?”

"Obviously," the prince remarked. "I find my company _lacking_ pleasure, though."

Louis, whose spirits had been clouded by his tedious company, couldn’t help how his excitement rose to a new level once the steady line of side by side built houses gave away to the view of the river. The prince soon caught the sight of the darker figures of the ships floating in the wide channel near the built-up but sturdy London Bridge, and the tall masts of the vessels anchored along the long wooden piers and platforms full of people and piles of goods yet to be stowed. He pulled the curtain of the carriage open wider and watched as men loaded up the ships, carrying heavy packs wrapped in light brown fabric, or rolling full barrels of either fresh water or wine up the loading planks, struggling as the gravity coaxed them to reel back down to the pier.

The sun was rising higher above the horizon, forcing the fog of the August morning to recede and the smell of the market nearby lay heavy in the air: the stench of fish, the grey and thick smoke coming from the blacksmith’s forge and some cheap perfumes mixed with the salt of the sea. The carriage came to a halt, jolting the prince who had admired a rather large frigate floating in the water, its stern adorned with a regal-looking British flag that waved feebly in the gradually strengthening wind.

Preston tugged the daydreaming prince’s arm to coax him out of the coach. “C’mon," he urged. "Let’s board the ship before it casts off without us.”

Louis snapped his hand back but stepped out of the carriage with great dignity. “Are you insinuating I am late? _A_ _prince_ is never early, or late for that matter. A prince comes and goes as he wishes.”

His burly companion surprisingly let out a laugh that reverberated deep inside the man’s chest. It was loud in the sudden hush that had fallen on the pier at the sight of the royal carriage and, undoubtedly, the prince whose lilac brocade jacket looked every inch the rich man’s attire it was. He almost smirked and waved at them, for, if it was up to him, they would not see him for a long, long time.

The ship in front of them was massive, to his eyes. The side of the ship rose out of the water like the face of a cliff, and the three masts towered into the blue sky. The rigging looked like spider’s net high above, but thickened into a rope the size of his forearms where it was tied to the pier. the loading plank was only waiting for them, the merchants having finished preparations and the vessel was ready to depart.

“Watch you step, Your Highness.”

They boarded the ship, The ship belonged to the English Trading Company and it would sail from London to La Rochelle, from where the prince would be taken to a summer palace where King Henri resided all the warmest months, away from the congested streets of Paris and the epidemics that raged about.

Louis took a moment to admire the sleek, lacquer covered railings and stairs of the ship's deck, mainly to avoid looking at all the bittersweetness he was leaving behind. Like the all too familiar red-roofed skyline of London, only broken by the occasional tip of a cathedral's rooftop, and the Tower of London looming regal and menacing with a large blue flag garnishing its highest flagpole between the four square towers. Louis, curious whether his father’s tales about racy adventures and debauchery were true to life, asked Preston about it. As a member of the Royal Guard, he would no doubt have heard about the juiciest of details.

“His Majesty is a very nice man,” was the answer. “Entertaining, but unfortunately he likes the company of ladies a bit too much.”

Louis let out a small ‘oh’ as he caught on. Love affairs were a taboo but it didn’t mean the ladies of the court didn’t enjoy spreading them when they assembled at their quarters to share tips about embroidery.

But even more fascinating to the womankind were the corsairs – especially to the young who found the idea of being captured simply too romantic to not dream about. And Louis, as well, found it easy to surrender himself into fantasies about freedom and life at sea in the flickering candle light that made the walls of the ship’s private quarters look haunted.

He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth; velvet loveseats and golden chandeliers around him. It was only natural for him to be curious as he had no notion of the real world beyond the palace’s protecting walls.

 _A chained life,_ Louis liked to think.

The wind had picked up right after they left the English Chanel behind and steered into the open ocean. Louis, unused to the rocking movement when trying to sleep, lay awake; looking through the small windows at the back of the room from time to time to make sure they weren’t in the middle of a storm. It did look ghastly grey but he wasn't able to discern anything further than the reflection of the orange glow of the candle.

At that moment, when Louis was almost exhausted enough to fall asleep despite the see-sawing, the ship did to swift turn, forcing the prince to grab one of the bedposts in order to not topple over to the floor. Footsteps boomed in rapid thumps as the crew started to move in obvious alarm. The prince drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, looking at the door of his cabin, wide-eyed.

A whistling noise pierced the air. The ship shuddered.

Louis threw the covers away, donning his brocade jacket quickly over his nightclothes and stared at the door, ears perked up to distinguish further sounds of distress.

More whistles were heard and several peculiar noises in quick successions, like a handful of knives hitting against something wooden. Less strange was the following fear that suddenly gripped Louis. Judging from the shouts, there was another ship close to them and by the looks of it, this wasn’t going to be purely a social call.

The sputter of muskets and pistols filled the air and Louis stood there, numb, but the sound of bodies hitting the ground – whether those of an enemy or his own, he didn’t want to find out – cleared his head enough so that his instinct to hide overcame his horror.

He scrambled off the bed, blowing out the candle beside the bed, and looking for place to hide along with something possibly lethal to wield if they were to come through the door in search of riches. If there had been a time he had been glad to be two to five inches shorter than the average Englishman, it was now as he hid inside a chest, clutching the brass candlestick, and pushed its contents out to make room for himself.

He left the lid slightly ajar, which turned out to be a good thing.

“…open the door…”

The voice was muffled, clearly belonging to someone British but less ‘pure’ than what the prince was used to. Louis had to strain his hearing to make out the words through the thick door and the thick accents.

A second voice. “…not enough time……blows up.”

“There could be _gold_ in there!” came clearer now as the stranger’s level of agitation rose. They were probably arguing in the corridor right outside his door.

“…too late. They’ve already lit the powder.”

Louis gripped the edge of his hiding place with white-knuckled hands. His legs shook as he forced himself to remain still, safely inside, until the lasts signs of movement stopped on the deck. The wait for the right time to abandon the ship was one of the longest Louis had ever encountered, including that one game of hide and seek where he had hid himself under the bed of a guestroom from where he wasn’t found for the next ninety minutes.

Then, he finally crept out of his hide, opened the cabin’s door and peeked his head thought the gap. The door opposite him was barely hanging from its hinges, the pirate’s having apparently headed straight to the captain’s quarters in their search for the most valuable. The floor was a mess, some invaluable items had been dropped on the way back to the deck, forming a trail of quills, brass buttons, books and, for some reason, several trousers. He followed the trail.

The deck was a mess of bodies, smeared pools of blood and goods that had been abandoned in the pirates' hurry to retreat. An empty barrel of rum, judging from the smell of it, lay next to men in red coats and white, bloodied trousers.

For some reason, his eyes and brain refused to register any of the further details, just allowing him to search for the most needful: the means to get away. His feet slipped on something wet, his hands fumbled to grip on anything to keep him steady, and if he did saw some more blood or got it in his clothes, he simply stared and wondered numbly where it had come from. Finally, the empty barrel he had seen closest to the door proved to be the best way to keep him at east afloat if he were to jump—and the probability of that was becoming frighteningly great.

With immeasurable gusto, the prince lifted the empty but surprisingly heavy barrel on the railing and pushed it overboard—and flung himself off the ship’s deck.

His back hit the water with a loud splash, and a thick cloud of silvery bubbles rose all around him. Or they stayed still and he sunk, lower and lower into the ocean. None of the air was from his lungs, though, for he kept his lips securely locked. The pain of the impact was the first to hit him, and after his senses numbed to it, he was able to register the coldness of the sea around him. His skin prickled with it.

Louis blindly started kicking towards the open sea, away from the ship’s hull, but thanks to the long drop down and the amount of cold water, he’s not sure which direction was which; the water above him was just as dark as the expanse of water below him. He couldn’t see further than his pale hands that pawed the water, fingers splayed. He didn’t stop to think how deep it was for too long.

Too soon, the explosion caused the ship somewhere above him to fall apart, the shock wave of the exploding gunpowder tossed Louis around like he was just a piece of driftwood. His thick jacket only made it worse, becoming heavy as it got wet, forcing Louis towards the bottom of the sea.

He shrugged it off, arms and legs flailing as he fought to resurface with the last remnants of air still left in his aching lungs. In his mind, he apologized to every person he had ever insulted when they had insisted to teach him how to swim. He swore to never complain about his privileged life ever again. He kicked himself forward harder, towards the reddish glow.

The first gulp of air was like a good night’s sleep after week of insomnia; refreshing, invigorating his numb muscles and sharpening his trail of thoughts.

And if Dame Fortune hadn’t been on his side before, she was now: the empty barrel – or another one that had flown there during the explosion – was floating right beside his head, drifting and bobbing along the waves that reflected the orange glow of the ship’s remains that were aflame and scattered around him. As Louis took hold of the barrel, it dawned on him that he would be spending a long time holding the wooden object for his dear life.

His salty tears of frustration soon mixed with the equally salty water of the Atlantic.

 

 

Louis came about slowly. First, he barely had no recollection of what had happened. He merely though he was young again, laying on his back on the grass and picturing the weird-shaped clouds had the forms of animals, each more exotic than the other. As he lay there, blinking his sight clearer, he suddenly remembered flitting on the borders of consciousness, where each bout had come and went in hypnotic rhythm, and he had been surrounded by an enormous body of water. Then, he noticed that he lay on a hard ground that see-sawed, rather than on anything garden-like. He distinctly remembered moaning about it before, and came to the conclusion he was on the board of a ship again.

The clouds that had looked big and white against the starling blue of the August sky above him, were not clouds at all but huge white sails of a dark-wooded mainmast, ropes and rigging going around to and fro, to every direction and back. He startled once he recalled his ship had blown up. Where _was_ he?

A man came to his line of sight, his silhouette shielding the prince from the too bright sky. Brown, ungroomed flyaway hair framed his face that had a notably long nose, and Louis had the misfortune of having a rather good look up his nostrils. When he spoke, Louis saw he had two, unnaturally big front teeth.

“Think he’s alive?”

Even without the following poke aimed at his ribs when the man ‘checked’ whether he was still among the living, Louis disliked him immediately. As the man kneeled to take a better look, Louis kicked him, hearing a satisfactory scrunch as his foot connected with his length-wise abnormal nose.

“Fuck – shit – _twat!”_ the stranger shouted, cupping his now gradually bloodier lower part of his face. “Keelhaul him!”

“He’s got spirit!” exclaimed another voice, extraordinarily delighted taken the situation. “Who knows how far he’s comin’ from. Could’ve been driftin’ in the sea for ages!”

Louis looked towards the voice and saw a blond man on his left; not any better groomed, but whose skin was not withered and peeling of due to the exposure to the sun, and less tan. He had lots of small cuts on his forearms and palms, like he handled knifes all day long and wasn’t particularly careful about what he cut – that, or a tight schedule.

“He must me hungry, then,” said a third voice, now from his right, belonging to a considerably less unkempt and more sophisticated-looking man, but who was definitely burlier than the rest, so Louis didn’t take any comfort in that. “Niall, fetch some food for our newest addition.”

“Aye, Payne,” said the blond, Niall, apparently. He disappeared under the deck, hopefully heading toward the kitchen. Louis stomach grumbled in agreement but he couldn’t hear its laments over the noise of the waves crashing against the prow and whooshing under the keel. The salty sea water was starting to dry on his skin, causing it to tingle uncomfortably under the glare of the sun. His clothes were still wet.

“Where am I?” he asked from the man with the kind, round brown eyes, although his judgement may have been altered by his offer for eatables. The man smiled at him, relieved to notice the boy was physically as fine as he could have been under the circumstances.

He said, “Welcome to _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ , Drifter.”


	2. A Blade of Crimson

“I don’t know anything about sailing, Mr...”

Louis trailed off. Some things were harder to give up; including the proper way to address someone. Yet it was difficult to think of the pirates that way. Payne the quartermaster had been given the responsibility of finding out Louis talents – however well-hidden or non-existent. The prince, who had never seen such amount of open water, leaned precariously far over the rail—it was the perfect height to lean one’s elbows on—and enjoyed how the wind ruffled his fringe. Payne’s eyes twinkled happily as he watched the smaller man’s delight in things that felt so simple to him.

“Oh, well, it’s never too late to learn. You’re from London, right? You speak the King’s English. How did you end up in the middle of the Bay of Biscay, then?”

If Louis was startled by the chain of questions, he didn’t show it. Instead he simply continued to grip the railing and enjoy the sunshine that heated up his cheeks and turned the behind of his eyelids into a lovely, warm reddish colour.

“I wanted to see the world,” he breathed into the wind as if telling it a secret confidentially. It didn’t answer back – not with words.

This was not what he had expected for pirates to be like. The prince had seen rough sketches and carvings of them; eyepatches, long beards, wooden legs and all. But these people were not like that and he didn’t know whether he had been lied to or if he _currently_ was being lied to. He preferred to think the former; the men had saved him from drowning, after all.

A familiar laughter startled him from his thoughts. “There’re a lot safer ways to do it, mate. What were you tryin’ to do? Swim to the Colonies from France?”

Louis grumbled darkly. He didn’t appreciate feeling like an idiot but he definitely felt like one now. He had been given some loaned garments which were too big for him; the trousers were supported by a single rope he had tied around his middle. The white billowy shirt was several sizes larger than Louis’ compact upper body and thus he had had to push the sleeves up to his elbows. However, there was nothing that could have been done about the neckline that kept slipping past his shoulder, exposing his collarbones. Still, it was an improvement from the thin nightclothes he had been wearing when he had been snatched aboard.

The source of the previous laugh was the Niall person who had disappeared below decks, into the kitchen. He was now bringing the food, a wooden bowl balanced on his right hand and a piece of bread on the other, proudly presenting them like it was a meal worth dying for.

“Sorry, mate. Not what you’ve got in London but best you can get at sea,” he boasted. “You’re in luck. We’d just returned from the mainland. Restocking…trading…indulging in the scarlet women.” The blond gave him a beaming grin. “Haven’t tried one of those, have you? Trust me; you haven’t lived until you’ve spent the night with one.”

Payne took pity on the small brunet’s horrified expression and shooed a giggling Niall away, restarting his cross-examination as Louis tucked in. The bread was dry but Louis had been without food long enough to know it wasn’t his place to complain – at least he had the soup to help him swallow the crustiest parts.

“Sorry for that. Niall’s the cook,” Payne said, pointing at the blond who presently tried to smuggle a rum bottle to below the deck. “He’s Irish if you hadn’t figured that out already. I swear his mother swigged a glass of strong whiskey before giving birth to him and it’s been a downhill from there.”

“Born as a true Irishman, then?” he asked between hungry scoops of the soup.

Several men listening in laughed at the comment. Louis couldn’t help himself and smiled widely, feeling somewhat successful for managing to show he could be a laugh as well.And although he was accustomed to have someone looking at him while he ate, the environment was not one he recognized, he had to admit.

“Are you scared of heights or would you say you have a keen eye?” Payne said, returning to business.

Louis recalled all the times he had climbed a three, away from his tutors and maids, and threw cones at them when they walked under his hide, and then pushed the mental image hastily way _.  I have a record of not following orders and I don’t warm up to authorities. I will make a wonderful crewmember._ No. Some things were better left a secret.

“Neither,” he said. Apparently it was possible for him to take turns in keeping a look-out on deck, but Louis feared it would become rather dull quickly, so that didn’t prove to be his forte, either.

”Can you cook?” asked a seemingly more anxious Payne, biting his lip and furrowing his brows as he got though his mental list of qualities that could come in handy.

”Uh,” Louis was starting to feel as if he was letting them down. Soon he would be walking the plank if they didn’t find any use for him. “No?”

“That’s alright.” Louis wasn’t sure which one of them Payne was trying to convince at this point. “Any other skills that you think could be useful in this ship?”

What use could a prince be for pirates? He was sure that countless lessons in war strategies, correct etiquette for a member of the royal family and horse riding weren’t the qualities they searched for.

In the end, he tried, “I’m fluent in several languages and able to keep track of expenses?”

The quartermaster looked a little impressed now, regarding him with a curious look, possibly pondering how he had been able to afford so high an education. Coincidentally this was why he hadn’t died of shame yet for being seen in his night attire as it had concealed his true identity and allowed him to remain incognito.

“We’ll definitely keep you for a while,” Payne said. “But if you want to stay, you’ll have to do some work. In the lack of something more suitable, you unfortunately have to start from where all the unlicensed members start: from the bottom.”

“Bottom?” he inquired suspiciously.

Someone conjured him a scrubbing brush and a pail full of black gooey substance that they thrusted into his arms. Louis looked at its contents in distrust, sure that such disgusting looking liquid would corrode even the toughest iron.

“I know just the right job for you. Get to work,” ordered another familiar voice, not kindly.

The prince didn’t. He faced the man he had earlier kicked in the face and gave him his best pompous glare. Which he had a hard time maintaining for the long-nosed one still had crusted blood around his nostrils and the corner of his eye had started to bruise, giving him the comical appearance of a clown, a dumb lower class character, all the way to his tattered servants' garb. “And how long does it take to get a promotion?”

“ _Promotion_ ,” the bloody man snorted. “At least until we find you a better suitable option. The rest depends on you. The Cap’s reached the top in three years.”

 _Captain?_ That conveniently served to remind Louis that he hadn’t seen the man yet even though it was his ship the prince was currently staying in. Involuntarily, he looked around the deck as though he was able to call the man there with just the strength of his mind. But none of the men—the ones hanging from the rigging, the ones with their feet securely on the planking—looked like a man in charge.

He joined the rest of the people with similar buckets and learned that the long-nosed man was called Grimmy and that he was the boatswain – fourth mate and fourth in command, as he liked to brag about – and responsible for assigning positions for the deck crew whose completed work he would later check and report to the superiors.

In the end, the gooey substance proved to be a mixture of some tar, oil and beeswax that should be applied to the deck once a week to preserve the wood, stop it from rotting because of the rain and humidity of the sea air – and to Louis’ luck, the deck had to be swabbed on that very day.

“Have a life at sea, they say,” he muttered darkly to the boards when a pair of brown boots walked past him. He considered splashing the tar all over the footwear but managed to restrain himself. “You’ll be free, they say.”

He rolled up his sleeves and set to work. For the next several hours, the prince was on all fours, holding the scrubbing brush with both hands and pushing it along the planking with all he got, for the friction made it fight back. The muscles in his arms protested with his back as one after about a quarter of an hour of swabbing the deck under the watchful eye of the boatswain. His glares were as hot as the sun on his back as they proceeded from the bow to the stern of the ship. Surely the longest two hundred feet he had ever encountered.

The only thing that got him through was the thought of murdering the indefinitely unknown captain and Louis’ steely will that was set on getting that promotion. And despite his initial shame about being witnessed in such position, he might have as well been in the nude for all the attention the men dancing expertly around them paid him. He was just one of dozen equals. Wasn't that what he had always wanted?

By the end of the day, his knees were bruised, his hands were full of blisters and his face had gotten more sun than he had ever been exposed to, thus leaving the tops of his cheeks sore, feeling almost raw. The prince didn’t really want to touch them as they felt like someone was building a bonfire on them.

Louis looked down at his hands mournfully. The black wax had collected itself into the creases between his palm and fingers, as well as under his nails and around the painful blisters. When he carefully brushed them over the material of his pants—paying only half a mind to the fact they were not his—he bit back a whimper he refused to let out in this company.

Instead, he simply adjusted his oversized shirt and tightened his makeshift belt as he stood, looking around for a clue what to do next. He was ready to follow the rest of the crew under the deck before a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“C’mon now,” said Grimmy, putting more pressure on Louis shoulders to steer him to the direction he wished to and starting to march them towards the double doors under quarterdeck, the raised portion of the deck where the helm was. He knocked on them briskly. “The old man wants to see you,” he said as an explanation.

 _Old?_ That would be new. He had seen nothing but young people, oldest being the boatswain himself, who was in his thirties. Maybe an older man would take pity on him and escort him back to the nearest port, or give him a better position among the crew – surely, being the captain and all, he could manage as much.

It turned out to be just a way of speaking – a slang word among the crew – for the captain was very, very young, and also a very, _very_ handsome man.

After being shoved inside the room, the prince noted curiously that while the captain’s cabin was rather large, it was not as detailed as the one he had seen on the Trading Company’s ship. There was a panelled floor-to-ceiling window set onto the back wall, allowing Louis to see the sea, the trail of the ship breaking the otherwise smooth blue surface of the water. The floor was bare, as were the walls void of painting or tapestry curtains, yet some ornaments lined some of the scarce shelves on the walls. But the central focus of the room was a desk full of nautical knickknacks, and behind it, was a curly haired man that caused Louis’ heart to stutter.

The young man had a sophisticated jawline that could have belonged to any nobleman, a graceful curve of his throat and a subtle Adam’s apple, from where Louis’ eyes drifted to the manly cleavage. The strings of the white shirt were undone, and the prince had never paid attention to a woman’s bosom – Good heavens had he been taught not to – but this was a very nice chest, a very nice tan, smooth skinned chest. A tip of what he suspected was a bird’s wing peeked from underneath his shirt.

“So,” the curly haired man drawled, starling Louis as he had not realized the captain had noticed his presence. In fact, he had hardly moved from where the boatswain’s push had placed him. “What does a nobleman do in a pirate ship?”

A jolt went through Louis’ body. “I beg your pardon?”

The man finally raised his gaze from his papers. His green eyes seemed to pierce through the prince, root him into his place. The irises were cold like an Italian marble, and his lips were full yet not feminine and currently stretched into a lopsided smirk.

“Your arrogance,” the man said, waving his ring-laden hand at the general direction of Louis’ chest. “The way you keep your chin an inch or two higher than everyone else, and how you seem to look down to everyone whether they were taller than you or not. I’ve seen it before, and only a member of a court would have it – which doesn’t leave many other options for your identity. So, why are you here?”

Louis scowled. Even the pirate’s voice was perfect; slow, deep and rich—the kind that would calm a nervous horse quickly. Yet, although he was handsome like the most beautiful roses in the royal garden, he was hiding his sharp thorns under all the glamour of the misleadingly lovely exterior.

“It’s none of your business. _How_ exactly have _you_ acquainted yourself with these specific manners of nobles?”

“You, my dear, are asking the wrong questions.” The captain leaned back on his chair, a picture of nonchalance that the sunshine framed with its golden glow. “Are you always this impertinent?”

“Try me on days that doesn’t end with the letter ‘y’,” he spat.

The pirate laughed, revealing an otherwise even set of teeth, except for the slightly bigger two in the front. It was quirky, just like his seeming habit of combining controversially weird colours and making it look as cultured as his graceful profile.

Louis stared.

“To answer your question, I’ve knows several people of noble descent who have left behind their inheritance to join _les boucaniers_. If you are to stay on this ship, I’ll need a name.” When Louis remained silent, he wrongly deduced: “Not your real name. We all start anew here. Whatever you want to be called, you shall be called.”

Louis, who had been seething inside, finally became unable to control his quick tongue. “Then how about you use that superior position of yours, which you are so arrogant of, to turn this bloody ship around so I can get back to the shore?”

The captain’s expression didn’t waver an inch. “The name,” he asked patiently. “Choose wisely.”

Louis inhaled shakily in his barely contained rage and exhaled a prolonged sigh-like exhale that let out some of his steam.

“Tommo is fine,” Louis told him after the necessary deliberation. “What is yours,” he shot.

“I have many names, most of which you don’t need to know of.” If a cat could smirk as smugly as him when it got cream, it would be considered ill-bred, a devil’s spawn. “But _Lame Écarlate_ is a personal favourite of mine.”

“ _You’re_ Crimsonblade?” Louis blurted out.

“I’m glad to notice my reputation precedes me.”

The prince’s upper lip curled upwards subconsciously. “You disgust me.”

“Do I really? I, after all, do not sink a low as to trade slaves, though. I know what it is like to be poor,” Crimsonblade started passionately, “and feel like you’re sold to strangers with too cheap a prize!”

He didn’t continue, just turned to look out of the window, jaw set tightly. Louis took that as his cue to leave, pausing only for a moment on the threshold to look back at the pirate. He hadn’t moved. Louis went through the door and closed it behind him.

Niall was waiting for him by the door, taking in Louis’ troubled expression as the prince couldn’t choose what he was exactly feeling; mad, yes, and more than a little intrigued by the captain’s self-possessed yet violent character, but even more than that he was tired – which Niall was nice enough to point out.

“You look like death warmed up, mate. Luckily for you, I was just gonna show you your sleepin’ quarters that you’ll share with the crew.”

They went below the main deck, descending some stairs (“Ladder!” Niall had responded to the incorrect term Louis used. “Always call stairs a ladder when aboard!”) to the gundeck where the heads of the canons peeked outside through the hull’s small windows that casted streaks of light to the planking. From there, they took another set of stairs – or a _ladder_ – to the orlop deck where the galley and the messdeck where.

“Here we are!”

Louis looked at the badly lit room whose only bright spots were the hammocks made of light-coloured burlap that hung between the ceiling beams. Some lanterns were also strung up to light the dark, windowless room, paired with wooden pails. Louis suspected they were for safekeeping your personal items, but the knowledge of having somewhere to throw up, were the heave of the sea to take turn for the worse, was calming.

Niall patter him encouragingly in the back, making the prince’s tired knees almost buckle. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Louis doubted he could. The hammock proved to be as unsteady as it had initially looked like when he tugged its fraying edges. He held his breath as if to not upset his balance as he climbed in, having to use a stool to reach it, much to his shame – causing yet another major blow to his self-esteem.

“Comfortable,” he whispered to the roof, not being overheard for the rest of the crew who were still smoking their tobaccos and playing cards or perhaps on the watch if not snoring loudly and getting their share of rest before waking up in four hours’ time to cover the next watch. “As if…”

Only now did the occurrences of last night – or the one before that as time had been a bit hard to follow – hit him in full force. The bodies, even Preston with his no-nonsense attitude was spared a few thoughts for. In the gloomy light, the shadows between his fingers looked like bloodstains. He felt like claustrophobia was hitting him even though the room was fairly large but the lack of windows made it feel like he couldn’t breathe or that the walls were closing in. Yet, at that point, he was so tired it could have as well been just some hallucination of a physically and mentally exhausted mind.

Once he finally fell asleep, his dreams were full of gunshots, fire and mysterious pirate captains laughing coldly as they watched the ships sink.

 

                                                                                                                           

 

Louis hissed as his feet hit the cold boarding of the messdeck.

It had been a cold night; they had travelled towards north during his fitful sleep and the change of latitude showed in the temperature as the colder water and wind had cooled the ship considerably.

The prince felt unsteady on his feet as if his body thought he was still in the hammock that had swung from side to side the whole night; as if he had become one with the waves. He just wasn’t sure if it was as freeing as he had previously believed. His muscles ached in places he hadn’t known he had them in the first place.

And if the rocking wasn’t bad enough on itself, the crew mingled about; some shirtless, some completely in the nude, and the prince averted his eyes quickly out of sheer discomfort. The men, without copious layers of clothing on their persons, might have just created the most bizarre sight he had ever seen:

Some were still in their hammocks, their makeshift sheets – pieces of various fabrics they had come across – tangled, drawn up to their waists, chests and backs bare. The ones that were putting their clothes on were illuminated by the light of the lanterns that caressed the back muscles that tensed and flexed along the men’s movement. With four sisters, he had never personally beheld a naked man, and, to his horror, he realized he appreciated what he saw.

Louis, ashamed of his ogling, busied himself with the bed, straightening his blanket for nothing and focusing on its moth-eaten surface a bit too fixedly to come off as natural. He let himself look up only after the last man’s steps were heard retreating towards the kitchen, and, continuing his avoiding, he fled to the main deck.

At the deck, the early morning welcomed him with the sight of a wall of grey for the warmer-than-air water of the ocean had raised a fog that completely wiped out the line where the sky met the ocean. The faint wind ruffled his shirt and hopefully blew away some of the musty scent of the burlap that had seemingly seeped everywhere during the night. He was certain he had never gone this long without washing himself. But fresh water was scarce and thus it was not used to wash away any grime caused by the day’s activities or to wash the clothing that had become stiff when the salty water dried within the seams.

And even that water was obtained by theft.

A lot of valuable cargoes were being shipped to Europe over vast ocean areas and given the ineffective Royal Navy – and other European navies as well – England was unable to stop the increasing amount of these soldiers of fortune that willed to gain riches by illegal measures. And as his father had said, they prevented the expansion of the British Empire.

Louis seethed quietly and gripped the railing, the very same spot between the mainmast and the foremast he had acquainted himself with yesterday. Payne joined him shortly after.

“I’m pretty surprised to see you up this early.” He offered Louis the other piece of bread he was holding. “Thought you’ll sleep like a rock once you get your chance to rest after a day like yours.”

The prince offered him a week smile, accepting the bread. “The sleeping arrangements left room for improvement,” he admitted and regarded his friend's - as he had started to consider him as - easy smile and bright brown eyes. “You’re rather cheery, too, for such an early morning.”

“Used to it,” the quartermaster said as an explanation.

"You are not like the rest of them," Louis commented before he could bite his tongue.

A look of surprise flashed across Liam's face. "What gives?" He looked around the deck as though wishing to find the reason there himself. “I guess it comes from being a seaman before, not unlike the rest of the lot. Many sailors got tired when the monarchs wouldn’t give us what we thought we deserved, and got persuaded into looting European merchant ships.”

“The robbed money is the best kind of money,” said a redhead with lots of freckles and slightly squinting eyes when he walked past them, carrying a heavy coil of rope. Louis noted the colourful tattoos on his forearm that shone in the light, very similar to others’ that had symbols about sea voyages or images of mythical creatures for luck: pirates were free persons but exceptionally chained to their superstitious, paranoid thoughts and beliefs.

Payne’s were not as crude, which got his attention. He pointed at the neat black ink on his right forearm. “What are those for?”

“One for each year of service,” Payne explained, notably proud of the four arrows lined one after another. “I think it’s quite the feat considering how fast I’ve reached my current position. I was elected by the crew.”

“And you’re…?” He looked at him pointedly, curiousness in his blue eyes.

“The second in command, yes. I can veto the captain’s orders – not that I’ve ever needed to – and be appointed as captain if he’s killed in battle." Louis got the idea the man was proud of his title and responsibilities as he enumerated them importantly. "I’m also responsible for discipline and choosing punishments for crewmen who have transgressed the articles.”

Those were something the prince _had_ heard of. Articles of agreement were the code of conduct amongst the pirates that was assembled by the crew of a ship and disclosed all the needed rules of piracy: the code of behaviour, the right way to share the plunder, and even giving reimbursement for crewmen who got injured at work, so to speak. Familiarly: _the Code_.

“But,” the Payne continued, “I must admit that some of us are here just for the adventure; like Niall. What unites us, though, is our wish to retire with our respective shares of the loot without being arrested or killed in battle; and we trust our captain to share the plunder fairly.”

“Do you know where it’s hidden?” Louis asked, not managing to quench the greediness his voice contained.

The quartermaster smiled. “You must’ve been listening to the tales about hidden treasures dug under the sands of abandoned islands and such. Piracy’s actually more about stealing what we need in order to continue living, and less about hoarding jewels.”

Louis hung his head in shame and chewed the bread slowly. The wind scattered the small crumps across the deck.

“But with a company as successful as ours, one does have something left to hide. However, only Zayn knows,” Payne continued, pointing at a mysterious, brown skinned man he hadn’t seen around yet. “Zayn is the first mate. Navigation and passage plans are his forte and because of that, the helmsman rarely steers the ship when the weather conditions are hard.”

By the looks of it, ‘Zayn’ was not any older than the rest of the crew, but Payne looked at him with something akin to admiration and respect. The man on the quarterdeck, behind the helm, had a smooth skin like the finest satin from East Indies and eyes like the chocolate made of the rare cocoa of West Indies. The prince pursed his lips and perused his companion’s facial expressions.

There was a doting look in his crinkled eyes, plush lips stretched into a warm grin.

“The captain usually consults him when there’s a problem,” Payne restarted like he hadn’t just stopped to stare at his mate for several dozen seconds. “They kind of have these long deep conversations about anything and everything; probably would never trust anyone else with those secrets they’ve shared with each other. No doubt, they both like that someone just _is_ there, even if they’re drunk off their asses. It’s just nice to have someone there.”

He spoke like he was speaking from experience, now staring sadly towards the open. Louis gripped his bicep comfortingly, “We can share our drunken thoughts together, then, mate.”

Payne smiled gratefully, leaning to the rail and watching the whitecaps whirl further away from the ship’s hull. A long but chubby animal with sleek skin romped about along them, surfacing and resurfacing after every time it dived back into the grey tinted water. Louis saw some of the crew pointing at it excitedly and wondered whether there was a story behind it. He distinctly recalled that there had been something about white elephants in East Indies in his books. But aquatic animals? His mind drew a blank.

Graciously, Payne helped him. “The old tale says that a black porpoise – the King – leads a flock of others, and if you catch him, he’ll make your wish come true. But only one,” Payne said seriously, gesticulating the number with a finger to accentuate it. “And only in return of his freedom.”

“How-how are you going to catch him?” Louis asked, perplexed. “You’re not going to harm him, right?”

The quartermaster glanced at the prince with wide eyes.

“He wouldn’t fulfil the wish, then, would he?”

Louis was surprised to note he still had the capacity to be ashamed after all thing he had went through – from his degradation to his painfully clear ignorance of anything nautical. But despite that Payne was a stiff man who joked rarely, underneath, he was a good, patient teacher who Louis could – and would – get to loosen up some eventually. The two men peeled themselves from the railing and the pirate set off immediately to the other end of the deck, with Louis struggling behind him. His legs were sore from yesterday’s work.

Absentmindedly, he acknowledged Payne lecturing him about several parts of the vessel—not that there was much to see on the stripped deck other than a rowboat, the three masts and the helm, but the pirate sure found a _lot_ to talk about. Louis just had an equal amount of unanswered questions swimming inside his head.

“May I ask you about something?” Louis suddenly asked after a long introduction to the basics of the sails – his head swam with names like _topsail_ and _jig_ that he was soon going to confuse with each other.They had paused in the middle of the quarterdeck, Payne having stopped pointing at the rigging of the three masts. The rails with their intricately shaped wooden bars surrounded then; and behind them, the wheel looked so large Louis imagined his outstretched arms could barely hold each edge of it. Its knobs were as thick as his wrists, and he wondered whether the wood would feel warm or cool under his hands.

Payne stiffened. _He thinks I’m going to ask him about Zayn_ , Louis thought. “Shoot,” the quartermaster said anyway.

“I-I only wanted to ask,” the prince started, trailing off, unsure whether he was crossing some line. “Wanted to ask what your opinion on our captain is.”

Payne let out a short laugh, but it was genuine. His brown eyes twinkled happily when he said: “Are you going to complain about me to him if I tell my honest opinion.”

“Do not tempt me. My self-discipline is not _that_ good.”

“I’m sure it’s not. But seriously, though, I’m allowed to say whatever I want about him.” He looked grim all of a sudden. “All I know is that he’s a damaged young boy at heart. I believe he was raised by some trivial lord in the countryside – Cheshire, probably, judging from the accent he had when I first met him. He was the one that recruited me.”

Louis, who was hungry for more, fought to keep his expression nonchalant. “I think I will enjoy your story if you are willing to share it.”

Payne preened notably. “Well,” he started, “I was raised in Wolverhampton, had learned everything was to know about sailing from books but I was too young to join the Navy and lacked the hands-on experience. Then I met our Cap in Southampton where he was recruiting and, to be honest, I was a bit intimidated by him.”

The last bit was told in a conspiratorial tone, round eyes peering at him meaningfully under the thick brows. They had paused in the middle of the quarterdeck, Payne having stopped pointing at the rigging of the three masts. Louis bit his lip, for he had expected a bit more. He should have guessed, given the man's personality, that he would not just _blabber away_.

"Why?" he urged.

“He was a year younger than me and held so much anger, some sort of bottled rage towards someone or something I didn’t get to know until many moons later. I admit at one stage I had been truly afraid for the poor bastard. The captain’s revenge would be terrifying thing to receive. Then, he became famous of it: he became ‘Crimsonblade’ – a nickname that only managed to spur the captain even more.”

Louis looked at him measuredly. The brightening daylight made Payne’s skin lighter, turned his eyes from their mushy dark colour into this molten gold-like brown; softer and less shallow. He had a birthmark on the skin of his throat. But even with his hair wind-swept, he looked like a man that would ask one's parents' consent first before asking for a girl's hand. Crimsonblade on the other hand, looked like somebody that would compromise your virtue, laugh as he does it and move to corrupt the next maiden he comes across.

“I don’t think he’s very fond of me,” Louis confessed.

“Tommo-,” Payne begun, but reconsidered. “I don’t think his very fond of nobles in general. You have nothing to fear if you keep your distance.” Payne hesitated but seemed to brush it off, whatever he had been considering. “Whatever you do, promise me something.”

Louis was baffled. “What?”

“Don’t anger him. Ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew,  
> What a monster of a chapter...  
> Anywayyyyy, I would like to hear your thoughts about where this is going. Good? Bad? In need of little improvement? Grammar?
> 
> A massive thank you for everyone who commented on the last chapter, you're the best <3 xx -M


	3. Steal or Conquer

The first thing Louis did when he stepped into the crowded mess-room was to automatically look at any signs of the captain. The second thing he did was to kick himself for the first matter. He had become frighteningly obsessed with the pirate in the past few days.

The dining place he had stepped into had become familiar within the week. It was by far the biggest open space aboard beside the deck, for the gundeck had only so little space to walk between the cannons lining the walls. In the middle of mess-room, was a wooden table big enough to seat twenty people, yet the crew liked to prove the rule wrong. Currently there were about fifteen men seated around it with empty bowls, tankards and crumbs of biscuits and bread before them on the table's worn surface. Judging from the noise, the emptying of the tankards had continued for a while.

“Pass me some of that bread, would you, Niall,” he asked from the other of his two friends among the crew.

The blond, nursing his umpteenth ale, made a suspiciously well-coordinated grab towards the loaf and chucked it to the prince who seated himself on the near end of the table. Thankfully the knife was not thrown, but slid across the table.

The men had gotten drunk on that very Saturday morning, only improving on their intake of alcohol once the sun climbed higher up the blue sky. Before, Louis had seen inebriated people, but this exceeded all his earlier experiences and believes. The men were singing, dancing – or rather, horsing – around and littering everywhere; whether it were the pants or some empty rum bottles. Louis flinched every time he came across someone barely mouthing the lyrics to their raucous songs and every time they passed him, they started singing about a ‘land lubber’.

Louis had yet to figure out what they meant by that.

Someone stumbled in when Louis was cutting himself a second helping of the yeast bread. The prince looked up carefully over the blade of the knife to the forms of Payne and Zayn who promptly took seats next to each other on Niall's side of the long table. The quartermaster threw an arm around Zayn’s angular shoulders and _kissed his cheek_.

The prince felt his muscles tense in surprise, caught off guard; the knife almost cut off his thumb. He cast a look at the blond who was studiously ignoring them, either from lack of interest in something common or out of obliviousness to happenings around him. Louis’ tense posture relaxed a little.

He couldn’t help but recall the talk that a homosexual person was a _molly_ , an effeminate man, and even a blind person could see that neither of these men fit the type – the one that extended their ankles, used powder and added blush to their cheeks.

Society had made it a target of ridicule – the Puritans going as far as viewing it as sin punishable by death.

“I – you,” he stuttered. “I didn’t think you were together.” He pointed an accusing, slightly unsteady finger at the quartermaster. “I thought you were just enamoured of him.”

“Nah,” Payne said and proudly tapped a golden ring on his left hand, eyes squinted into happy little slits. “We’re officially together-“

“-by the code, and those are the only rules that matter,” Zayn finished as though on the defence. Louis studied his profile, the thick lashes that casted literal shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light of the mess-room. The sleeves of his shirt were cut off, and their edges ragged, clearly made with a knife by an inexpert hand, but added that something to the pirate’s air. He envied his darker skin tone which allowed this, being less prone to sunburn.

Maybe the life at sea had turned the crew’s sexuality into something more _situational,_ he reflected. Corsairs, after all, spent months at sea in all-male crews, cut off from the rest of humanity, especially from women, and perhaps turned to each other for sexual release. Sailing the seven seas had at least resulted in no qualms about getting naked and intimate in front of each other, used to be in such close quarters with about a fifty other men that scarce clothing appeared to be the least of their worries.

“Yeah.” Niall was now looking into his newly empty tankard, dipping his finger in as if to scrape off the last bits of foam. “The crew’s like my entirely heterosexual bunch of friends, with whom I’ve got no carnal relations whatsoever, despite all appearances to the contrary,” he piped up, successfully erasing all the prince’s pent up tension, so that watching the men caused a wide smile to spread on Louis face.

To see two men being totally comfortable with showing their affection was very important for him in a way he was almost scared of.

He recalled that time when a distant cousin of his, Earl George Carr, had asked his father to knight his lover, a certain rich gentleman called William Jones, who he had met during a tilting match. The incident had ruined the reputation of the royal family nearly for a decade before the public became more interested in newlywed King Henri’s latest conquest – if there was something they loved more than judging their rulers, it was to gossip about foreign leaders and pretend such disgraces were above the English Royal Family. Sometimes Louis had still heard the shadows and walls of the castle whispering how Carr mended Jones’ broken leg and let the latter spend the summer in his estate, under most surreptitious conditions.

“So, you are – married?” The last word was nothing more than just an interjection.

“Not marriage. _Matelotage_ ,” Payne corrected as if the word had somehow personally insulted him. “The union is only honoured under the pirate flag.”

Louis’ skin prickled as he sat there; stunned, blinking and drowning in his own very identity crisis. “But…some of you have been in the Navy! How are you so different? How can two men-“ He couldn’t continue. His dining companions looked at him sharply, assessing.

Zayn drew Payne closer, protectively, and said, “Because the makers and the abiders of the rules are in the same boat – literally. We’re free men. Unnatural has stopped being so fucking alien to us.”

“And, how does it work?” Louis couldn’t stop his treacherous mouth from forming the question. He suspected the men would come to loathe him for the barrage of questions that was his curiosity. Though this time, in the current circumstances, his voice had stopped holding simply academic interest. “This mate-thingy?”

Surprisingly, Niall answered to that. “It’s not far from marriage. They exchange gold rings, pledge eternal union, share everythin’ – plunder, livin’ spaces, property and” – he grinned wolfishly – “women. Plus, the death benefits, but we like to consider ourselves unbeatable. Dying sounds a bit depressing, dontcha think?”

There was an unpleasant peal of laughter. Rising to his feet from the midst of other sitting crew members, was Grimmy whose eyes were glittering ominously. Louis tried to not let his laugh affect him, but he couldn't help how they reminded him of his position as the newest addition. The weak link among the cohesive company. The boatswain’s glances still held some of the anger his glares had conveyed, but he was entertained enough to sit across from Louis without trying to mentally shoot daggers at him. “Oh, Nialler, Nialler, Nialler,” Grimmy said. “You always walk with your head in the clouds.”

“Ya know,” Zayn started, eyes narrowed at the older man. “I’m quite sure the last time we were on land, _you_ won a treasure map in a game of cards, and then we had a good laugh when the cap plugged the map out of your arms and said there is no island between Guadeloupe and Antigua and that even a child could make a map that says ‘ISLA DE MUEяTA’.”

Louis nearly inhaled his last crumbs, causing him to cough and hit his chest. Through watering eyes, he witnessed Grimmy’s smile turning sour. “You think it’s funny, do ya? It’s not my fault spelling is made so damn complicated. If only someone could make a book that has all the words written inside it.”

Payne’s brows furrowed. “What? _A book?_ With no plot or other reason than just to recite hundreds of thousands of names and terms? That would never work, mark my words. What would you call it? _Wordionary?”_ He laughed self-depreciatingly at his own joke.

Midst the clinking of tankards and loud laughter, the heels of boots clicked closer. The person entered the mess-room, silencing some of the crew instantly. It was like watching a cloud gradually covering the sun.

“The inner jib is worn out and there is a tear in the middle of the main upper topsail," said the man's voice on Louis' far right, just out of his peripheral vision. A drawling, arrogant voice that was instantly familiar. “Get to work or we’ll be dead in the water.”

Crimsonblade.

Louis turned around with caution and saw a frown on his face as he beheld the sight of his far from sober crew. A few men staggered past him to the ladder. Payne left as well, making his way down the corridor and whistling as he went.

Louis watched them in concern, albeit amused. “Aren’t they a bit too drunk?” he whispered to Niall, craning over the table.

“If that were the case, pirates would be extinct,” answered Ed the ginger who had mostly been silent, but who now moved closer to the prince as more sitting space had been vacated.

Louis’ eyes stayed on Crimsonblade who watched his crew in amused resignation and turned his back to them. Ed leaned closer to the smaller brunet and whispered, “Maybe he should scowl just three times a day instead of his average twelve. People might think he actually hates us.”

The captain had a magnificent hearing – or a sixth sense. “I do hate you.”

Louis couldn't see his face, but his tone had been playful. It was odd, he thought. Only a few days ago he had snarled at him about arrogant, privileged nobles, and later had talked about poverty with so much feeling, his face burning with intensity as he did so. And now he was teasing his crew as if they were friends, someone whom he knew otherwise than just by business, mayhap thought with affection, but toward whom he felt no true, deep trust.

While Louis was piecing together the mystery that was his character, the captain turned around, holding a bowl in his hands and smiled.

Louis, who was absentmindedly admired the fullness of his mouth – the prominent Cupid’s bow and the startling pink colour of the plush lips – noticed that the smiles he wore were very cold even though the dimples and the naturally uplifted corners of his mouth told him of a possibility of warmer personality.

Crimsonblade dipped a spoon into his soup and grimaces as soon as the liquid touched his extended tongue. “Bloody hell. The soup’s cold again.”

Niall threw him an apologetic smile that was closer to a grimace from atop his newly foaming tankard. . “Sorry,” he said. “We’ve run out of firewood.”

“We’ll get more once we reach _Victoire_ ’s shipping lane,” Ed slurred his words. Louis was starting to doubt his green leaves were mint as he had claimed.

In unison, the men in the room let out a loud “Aye!” and raised their drinks to their lips.

 

                                                                                                                           

 

The clouds streaked past, sagging, and looking sad like an enormous, grey mourning veil as they passed over the two pirates sitting precariously close to the edge of the bowsprit. It wasn’t autumn yet but the official start of it was just the merest hairsbreadth of days away. Chilly rain had come up against them when they neared southern Ireland.

“Mmmmh.” The expression on Niall’s face couldn’t be described as anything but blissed out as he inhaled the air, eyes dancing behind his closed lids. His roots were a shade darker than the dirty blond of the hair ends whitened by the sun. “The smell of the green grass and cow shit. Welcome home, Niall, welcome home,” said the blond, looking at the direction of the barely discernible shoreline of his homeland. “Could do some roasted spuds made by me mam right now.”

Louis turned to him in curiosity. “She’s alive?”

“Very much so.” Niall laughed it off in his usual style. “She’s alright with everything I do…unless I forget to bring her some jewels whenever I can get back to Mullingar.”

“And the others’? Are their parents alive?”

His answer was cryptic for a person whose voice always held some humour. “Sometimes it’s a good thing to play your cards close to your chest.”

And maybe Louis understood. After all, he had been present at his father's many meetings where Lords and other respectable landowners were gathered around a table, addressing their King on turns, who would then proclaim a solution to whichever important or insignificant, familiar or remote problem in his Kingdom that had been brought up. Yet, more often than not, a representative had sailed across the sea to discuss the situation in British Guiana or in another subject of their Empire's colonization. There was a possibility of the whole family being in danger of punishment if a connection to a buccaneer was found.

And Louis? He had made at least three genuine friends for the first time in his life, without there being any political, ulterior motives behind, and to his amazement, found that they, too, liked him simply for his personality; not because of what he presented - which they of course were not truly aware of, at least to an extent. And that thought always sobered him again.

The water below them looked as grey as the heavens as they attempted to locate _Victoire,_ on whose shipping lane they had been laid in ambush, waiting. For such enormous objects, ships were very hard to discern, their sails seeming to simply pop out of the vast surface of the ocean, suddenly appearing on a spot where Louis swore there had been nothing just moments ago.

He may have been a bit distracted, too: he’s eyes kept flitting past the ocean to the foredeck where Crimsonblade kept watch.

The century was an era of grand clothing, with silks, brocades, lace and embroidery being common for both men and women who could afford them. A captain of a ship – whether it was a pirate ship, a warship or a merchant ship, there was no difference – could wear literally anything he wished to. And unfortunately, a coat and its grandeur was the only way to determine who was in charge.

A fact their captain had perfected into an art form.

Crimsonblade had the fine linen coat of a captain, a dark one made of thick material that almost brushed his calves as he moved, the pleats in its back stressing his waist; breeches tucked inside his knee-high brown boots; and an ostentatious, broad-brimmed hat with the perfunctory feather in it, and a number of baubles about his person. But still, a man who travelled with only the clothes on his back – well-worn, fit tightly around his broad shoulders as he looked into the horizon with a telescope, curly hair cascading down his neck like a brown waterfall.

Soon, he wet his lips that stretched into a wide grin. Louis observed the deep dimple that appeared on the cheek that was facing him. “Ah, there she is!”

Louis was staring at Crimsonblade in amazement; though he was the only one. The captain’s grin was big, and the prince had seen him bitter, he had seen him angry; but never would he have guessed he would witness this giddy excitement – like a child that had just gotten their first doll.

“Get ready to capture a ship,” the captain shouted and it was followed by the exited exclamations of the crew. Some of the men climbed to observe their future source of income from the heights, hanging out in the rigging. From there started an expertly refined and seemingly familiar pattern of men dancing along the vast space of the flush deck, carrying coils of rope, one of them attached to a round stick made of metal.

“We’re soon above the shoal, captain. Should we swing the lead to check if it’s shallow enough to drop the anchor?” Louis heard a man ask.

“Yes. Secure the cannons. Let Zayn take the wheel,” the captain answered.

The man with the rope climbed to the mast closest to Louis and tossed the leadline into the water before heaving it up. Yells of “Nine fathoms!” and “Cast the anchor!” rang loud in the air. Louis watched avidly as Zayn took the stairs to the quarterdeck two at time, and ushered the helmsman away. Payne appeared beside Louis shortly and caught hold of the rail, tight.

“Take a good grip, Tommo,” he advised, face burning with excitement. “We’re gonna club haul to starboard’s side.”

Louis blinked up at him. “We’re going to what to _wh—_ “

He had asked too late. The ship turned swiftly to the right and the balustrade hit him in the diaphragm, forcing the air out of his lungs as he was brought out of balance because of the sheer speed of the sudden turn.The ship’s hull groaned, the wood protesting under the pressure targeted to the boards as they had dropped one of the anchors at high speed to make the abrupt turn possible.

They were now at a good firing angle to the vessel they pursued. The slight buzz in his blood, caused by the proximity of the possible battle, had worn off slightly because of the literal punch to the stomach, and Louis was brought back to the surface of the earth. He was Louis Tomlinson, heir to the throne; not a pirate.

Louis took a large, stuttering gulp or air. “Ugh.”

Payne, coupled with Niall's gleeful but annoyingly catchy laughter, grinned at him. “That was starboard.”

“Pipe down, Payne.” The prince massaged his stomach area and took a closer look of _Victoire_.

Their own flagless ship was approached by a full-rigged vessel like theirs whose hull was half red, half black, and its almost forty canons could have intimidated even the toughest of sea dogs, not to mention Louis who had been trained to face down anyone in a duel. But now that this was actually happening, he felt like he didn't know anything at all. On one of its masts, there was a large white flag, the centre of which appeared to be adorned by a red and blue pattern; the flag of Bourbon.

_King Henri’s flag._

“French,” Crimsonblade pointed out with a twisted sort of smile, seemingly very unaffected by the way the whole word had seemed to rotate. “They always have the best barrels of wine ready to be traded. A shame we’ll drink it first. Their women are not to be forgotten, but alas, the noble girls are terribly prudish for Frenchwomen.”

The men hooted. Louis scoffed in disgust, tragically overheard by the captain's sharp senses. He gave him a look that was hard to decipher. “And you think I’m objectifying women, right? Have a nice brunette back at home yourself?”

“Not anymore,” Louis said between his gritted teeth. He ignored the curious glances their dispute had given rise to, but wondered if participating in one was rare for the captain. “If there is someone warming my bedsheets in future, it will be a man.”

And for once, Louis got to have the last word. He wasn’t sure what made him say it as he wasn’t that sure about his preferences himself – just that getting a response out of the captain was worth it, even if it meant this caught-off-guard stare. He didn’t believe it himself. Mostly.

And when he later caught his eyes traveling to Crimsonblade, the captain was already looking at him with distinct interest.

They waited. It wasn’t a position Louis found himself often and he did not like it. The other ship seemed to be slowing down, and they were laying low as if not to alert them. Louis had seated himself atop a barrel and had started to twitch to release some of the nervous energy pent up inside him. Payne was humming, sitting in the floor beside the barrel.

“They’re getting suspicious,” the quartermaster explained to no one in particular. “Let them come a bit closer.”

“How long does it take until they reach us?” Louis inquired, torn between wanting something to happen and dreading it would happen.

“If they continue at this speed? About four hours.”

Louis groaned. The merchant ship felt to be sailing even more unhurriedly when Louis counted the time. Four hours. Two hundred and forty minutes. Fourteen thousand four hundred seconds. Yet the vessel refused to appear any bigger in the horizon, against the grey water. But larger than their ship it was, for a merchant ship’s only purpose was to carry most cargo.

Unconsciously, Louis had started to swing his feet to and fro, the motion creating a soft incessant _thud, thud, thud-thud_ that echoed on the deck. Gradually more and more men turned to face him, their faces a study of annoyed expressions. A hand landed on top of his knee, forcing his foot to stop its movement.

The sheer surprise of the motion startled him, but even more was he startled by the owner of the hand, for when his eyes focused on him, it was the captain that looked at him and shook his head subtly in reprimand.

He was not the most handsome person Louis had ever seen – but the only one he had ever looked like this: in a way that brought blood to his cheeks, and tightened other places as well as just his chest. The prince just wanted to touch him, to see if he really was as solid as he seemed, to try what his hand’s texture would feel like against his own soft, only recently blistered palm. He averted his gaze in a way that was becoming alarmingly frequent lately.

 _Please, stop,_ he pleaded with his mind. The hand was withdrawn.

Beside him, on the opposite side of the barrel from Liam, Niall was rubbing his stomach, muttering about how many barrels of beer, rum and wine he should take for himself: “…one quart of liquor per man per day…… _plus_ beer……and then the wine….”

Louis hid his smile behind the back of his hand. The basic rule at the sea appeared to be that if – _when_ – the crew runs out of alcohol, one will simply have to capture a ship and take what was needed. The thirst was apparent in the facial expressions of the crew, hunger for riches, the draw of the adrenaline rush the capturing would induce and perhaps even the knowledge of doing something illegal raised their levels of excitement, the men becoming impatient to feel the exhilarating freedom of going against the law.

That was something Louis, too, wanted a taste of.

Liam’s previous prediction of four hours turned into five. The sun, or the general direction where Louis suspected the source of light was, had climbed lower and would soon tickle the water. The commercial ship’s white, new sails, were almost blinding in how they reflected the evening sun’s beams of light even when covered by the clouds. There were dozens of men aboard, waving. Louis could just discern a man with a notably detailed coat.

The men shouted something. Crimsonblade seemed to shout something back, but the words managed to escape from Louis as he was more focused on the impeccable King’s English the captain had just started to churn out.

“He’s asking for help finding our position at sea,” Payne explained to him, leaning closer to the prince who had been drumming his fingers against the barrel in a bored manner. “It works better if the accent of the captain tells of his high status. A pirate captain with a lower-class accent could not pass himself as a gentleman. This is a new boat, not some skiff with battered sails, so we’ve gotten lucky many times.”

Louis just raised his brows. Could that have been the secret behind _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ and its captain’s unheard-of success? Using a ruse to get closer to the fat merchant ships, their hulls full of treasure and goods that as good as awaited them?

“What if it doesn’t work?”

Payne shrugged. “They might ignore us and continue on their way, alter or change course in order to get away – make us loose the advantage we had on them. The other captain might also stand and fight, but he could as well simply run for it.”

“Tough luck, mate,” Louis said emphatically.

It had started to drizzle. And just when Louis reached to wipe some of the raindrops from his brow, a voice—a familiar voice—of metal scraping against metal was heard briefly.

Louis turned his head instinctively, though he knew what to expect when he faced the source of the noise. He was not disappointed. Crimsonblade had drawn his sword. The blade caught light, glittering, and not yet red from blood as his name cruelly suggested. They had pulled up alongside the French ship that was now right in front of them; looking up to the skies where the rigging of the boats seemed to become one, Louis could discern the two cherubs in blue cloths flying around a crown in the middle of the flag.

“Fire!”

 _Boom_. The prince jumped at the bang and the following crash when a chain-shot hit the other ship’s foremast and brought it down. Half shorter, the mast looked silly as it sagged against the sails of the mainmast. Flashback to the nigh he had been in distress at sea flitted in front of Louis’ eyes, and he closed them tightly. He saw dead bodies, blood, heard the muffled screams of the murdered Englishmen – _of his people._ His people that he hadn’t been able to protect. He blinked the memory away.

The men on the main deck of the merchant ship had scattered, obviously having realized they had fallen into a trap. It was too late now; the men were already tying the ships together by heavy ropes: the tossed rope lines and grappling hooks crisscrossed between the vessels like corset’s strings. When the quarterdecks of the two ships touched, the boarding attack was ready to start. Payne got into position, ready to lead the attack. Weapons were collected into a careless pile on the deck, the crew picking up their choices, balancing them in their hands, contemplating, before streaming over the sides. Some crawled into the other ship using the ropes and grappling hooks, some jumping right across, throwing themselves into the oncoming horde of Frenchmen.

Louis opted to wait in case the other crew had pikes to stave them off with. Then, he picked up a dagger and jumped.

His first observation about the French ship was that it was less sleek. The forecastle was higher, ruining the impression of a flush deck without unnecessary structures, and thus blocking greater utilization of deck space in engagements and storage of armaments. The crewmembers already aboard _Victoire_ had started to disarm the men that had refused to surrender, and gained control over those that just came up the ladder from below decks, twirling their swords and pistols, but freezing as they beheld their inferiority both in skills and in number.

The pirates proceeded until they reached the ruddy-faced captain, who had tried to escape them to his cabin, and held him captive between a blade and the wall of the quarterdeck. When he tried to complain about an exceptionally precious treasure being taken away right under his nose, the blade dug deeper into his skin; every time he let out a noise or raised his hand, a drop of blood made its way down his thick neck.

The unarmed men were forced to flank the sides of the ship, watching as their possessions were taken. Some were forced to kneel, some were looking at their captain's struggles with badly concealed, grim satisfaction.

Louis simply stood there where he had dropped down onto on the other side of the railing, his hand curled into a fist around the handle of his weapon. Not much use in combat; its blade too short, requiring someone with swifter and more expert movements than what the prince could pull off. And yet, their company was doing a fine job without him.

He started forward, catching a glimpse of blond hair and following it as it bobbed amidst the crews, dodging out of the way of the members of his own crew who looked like they waited for something expectantly. When he caught with him, near the ladder that led to the gundeck, he asked, “Is there actually a plan one should follow when capturing a ship?”

“Well, we prefer to do it by the plan of steal and conquer,” Niall said cheerily, sidestepping a man carrying an armful of bottles. “Or disarm first and ask permission to commandeer the ship afterwards – we haven’t fully decided yet.”

“Shouldn’t you make it more…apt? Translate it into Latin, for example, like _divide et impera_.” When Louis’ suggestion didn’t get the effect he had waited, he enlightened: “Caesar? Julius Caesar? Rome’s leader during 49-44 BC?”

“Not sure about Caesars, mate, but there’s some mean rum down there.” Niall pointed at the planking under his feet. “You coming?”

“No, I do not condone drinking.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Niall said and disappeared into the darkness of the lower decks.

It was starting to look like none of the Frenchmen were currently armed, and Louis let his grip on the dagger relax, and after a moment, resolved to put it away, tugging securely in under his rope-belt. The deck was proving to be scarce of things to steal, and the prince didn’t fancy going under the deck where between the stanchions and walls, anyone could lie in ambush.

Just a few feet away from him, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the quarterdeck, several men broke down the door to the captain’s quarters and, out of curiosity, Louis followed them.

As he stepped over the threshold, he noted it was remarkably more luxurious, holding more than just the necessity, and verging on flashy. Volumes lined the white walls with gilded ornamentation, velvet fabrics were wrapped around everything imaginable from chair cushions to bed curtains, and on opposite sides of the room, were a large bed and an even more luxurious desk. When the door shut behind them, the light in the room dimmed; and before Louis had managed to step further into the room, the men violently attacked the closest bureau beside the large canopy bed.

Chests, coins, jewellery – anything that shined – were swiftly taken. All sorts of caches were upended, their contents strewn about the carpeted floor. But Louis was only interested in a brush that he took in gratitude, and a mirror, as he was used to a vainer lifestyle. Faintly, he heard the crew’s hollers, Niall’s being the loudest of them all, as the thundering voice of the barrels being pushed across the deck started to ring loudly in the air. After that, he headed to the shelves, from where he found a copy of _The Heptameron,_ a fascinating insight into the minds and passions of the nobility of sixteenth century France. The prince remembered reading it to his sisters – although it was far too impalpable for so young a children, but alas, the young were not the priority when printing books.

Holding his very first stolen items, he understands why Payne had once said that the first theft feels like you had never really owned anything before in your life. Most of _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ was bare of personal decoration or anything that might remind the crew of their homes – except, the ship _was_ their home; the space they spent most of their time in. The people owned very little, and what little they owned, belonged to them all.

Louis had always been a bit selfish deep down.

He kept the brush, the mirror and the book. He was just about to continue searching for something to wear, when he and the couple others were alerted by a commotion on the deck that caused the men to hurry out of the door.

The prince was rather sceptical about joining them, but again, the want to know was burning too intensely on the back of his mind to be ignored.

The first thing he saw on the rain-drenched deck was Crimsonblade watching the crews, keeping an eye on both. The captain of Victoire was moved into the centre of the maindeck for all the crews to see. It was a sight to behold: the leaner figure of Louis’ captain circling around the other captain with the potbelly. It was like looking at a performance of a pauper and a nobleman but where the dresses of these characters had been mixed up, leaving the nobleman in the servant’s clothes, yet acting in nobly fashion.

But only when Crimsonblade spoke, did he realize he was addressing the wrong crew. “Do you have a just captain?” he asked in a voice that was carried by the wind all the way to the men standing in the back.

At first, it seemed the men would not dare to speak up, but when the first "Nay," came, it was soon coupled with the negatives of the others. Appearing from midst the crew, Payne and Zayn had each a reluctant-looking officer in their grip. They pushed the men who took a few steps, too uncomfortable to do anything else than what they were asked to, and then another few until they had joined the captain's in the middle of the deck.

"Would he be a better captain for you?" Crimsonblade prompted and pointed at the younger one of the officers. His eyes scanned the men lined along the rail. "What say you?"

"Aye!" came the shout of all the man in unison, now more confident.

"Your crew has spoken," the curly haired man said silkily to the now ex-captain and, with a swift flick of his cutlass, snagged the man's long, grey wig off of his head. It fluttered on the wind and disappeared over the railing. The man, clutching his rough buzz cut in embarrassment, glared at Crimsonblade. "Now, now. You should be glad I spared your miserable life. A captain who is not deserving of a positive testimony from his crew, is no captain at all."

The captain of _Victoire_ shouted something in an agitated manner, drawing Crimsonblade’s attention to him. Something moved in the shadow beside Louis, the shape - a _human_ shape - was moving out of the darkness the stairs created. Nobody else had seen it, for most of the men were still currently faced the opposite way, towards the deck. All familiar faces were in the bow. And then the man lunged himself towards the middle of the maindeck.

Towards Crimsonblade. _  
_

Louis reacted quicker than his thought could really follow. He flung the brush, watching it land in the feet of the running man who had been hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right time to attack. The brush bounced off of his leg and skid a few feet away, serving to get his attention away from the back of the captain.

The clatter had gained the attention of the curly haired captain as well who drew his cutlass that flashed silver in the smoky darkness of the moist evening. The first blow from the sneaky guy was deflected easily enough, the man having lost his concentration perhaps due to his sheer astonishment at someone’s nerve to throw a brush at him. The dark coated figures blurred in the night and once the two stopped moving, the attacker’s sword lay on the ground and the captain stood before the unarmed man, his chest heaving.

The rainfall of the darkening night had turned his hair into ink, black curling loops clinging to his throat and neck, lips pink, only a tiny scrape on his upper lip, just over his artful Cupid’s bow. He looked like any knight in those medieval poems; a Romeo coming to save his Juliet, except, he looked about as shocked as if one of the masts had suddenly come to life and started throwing things.

 _“You?”_ he started. “Did you just – did you just save my life?”

Shouldering past the spectators, barely acknowledging how many men were looking, Louis strode toward him. “Yes,” he gritted out. “Very nice of you to _thank_ me.”

The moment between them snapped; Crimsonblade’s expression became closed, and the surprise that had fuelled him to leave his guard down, was gone. “Thank you.” It wasn’t sarcastic or made out of necessity, but a genuine commendation which gave rise to a feeling of gratification that was quickly thwarted by his next words. “I had everything under control. Now if you excuse me, I have a ship to raid.”

Louis frowned. “You’re not going to kill people, are you?”

The captain threw his head back in a gesture of utter exasperation. The prince noted with interest that couple of the wet curls bounced at the movement, like a lady’s skirt that swished along as she danced.

“ _That_ is not how real piracy works; only amateurs kill everyone." Crimsonblade looked at him as if he had said something stupid. Louis suspected he had. And now that he was standing before him, his cool, beautiful face gave nothing away once again. "If they start thinking you won’t let them survive, they will fight for their last breath, make our job much harder. Unnecessarily time consuming when it should be done quickly.”

Louis let out a weak, little ‘oh’ but it was only overheard by the retreating back of Crimsonblade. It had been different than being lectured by Payne – _he,_ at least, didn’t look hugely entertained by the prince’s lack of knowledge in things that were so common to him. And now that the entertainment part seemed to be over, the men returned to raid the vessel. It soon started to seem like at least two of the decks were already emptied of ropes, rum, weapons and kitchen supplies, but the treasury and the brig were yet to be checked over. And just then, the familiar lanky figure of the boatswain appeared from under the deck as he hurried toward Payne who still stood on the bow of the ship.

“There’re slaves in the dungeons.” Grimmy’s hushed whisper reached the prince, who stayed frozen on the middle of the maindeck. “We’ve got to leave them.”

Louis' guts contracted. He had thought he knew every ill-gotten ways to rule an empire where the sun never set, but it still divided his heart like a lightning might split a three. Next to Grimmy, Payne looked calculating, rubbing his brow with his thumb in a gesture that Louis swore he had seen before. “I don’t see why if they’re willing to join us."

They were. Louis stood with Niall, Payne and Zayn—and Crimsonblade but Louis attempted to pretend he was not there—when the few that agreed to turn to piracy were brought to the maindeck. The prince had never seen so many people of colour at once, and noted with interest that while their varying skin tones were exotic, it all was also very beautiful: cinnamon, coffee, safran, chocolate. The youngest must not have been older than fourteen but proved to be remarkably good with his hands when they interrogated them on the deck. The eldest was not of African descent at all, but a Caucasian male, a tall man with sturdy built, strong and angular jaw paired with brown eyes and short hair.

“The name’s Alberto,” he introduced himself, voice bearing only slight accent, “but ‘Al’ is what I was known as when I served under the Polish–Lithuanian flag. I must say that piracy is not what I had in mind, but it sure is an improvement of conditions – a choice of other occupation other than slavery.” He massaged his wrist where the bruises from the bonds still garnished his skin. “I used to be a gunner.”

 _Before I was imprisoned_. He did not say it yet it was between them, unspoken.

Louis eyed his physique and noted it made sense. Handling heavy canons and cannonballs must have built one’s strength and muscles. But he was also someone already familiar with the single-sex community and the rigors of life-and death-at sea – a volunteer to join the ranks; the opposite of Louis, being a commoner and more likely to create social cohesion amongst the crew.

Crimsonblade was the one to point out the obvious. “No women on board, unfortunately.”

Louis looked at him reluctantly for the first time. Going by what little he knew of him, Louis guessed he was a shut-down kind of person, which would make sense, considering that no one except Zayn seemed to truly understand him. If he had really wished that, Louis didn't know, but the men looked unsurprised. In fact, Niall leaned closer to him, his whisper not any lower than a person’s normal speaking voice. “I’ve never personally witnessed him layin’ a hand on a female. I think he’s rather fond of the more muscular sex despite his obvious charm that draws ladies like moths to a flame. Must be the curls.”

Louis, not above believing the captain had purposely spread those rumours himself, hummed distractedly. He definitely saw the attraction, but had yet to witness it happen. Still, the thought irked him for some unfathomable reason, as he watched the curly haired man walk to where the plunder switched ships.

“It’s better they don’t bring any on board,” Payne commented suddenly.

“Bad omen?” Louis asked him.

Payne nodded. “That and a cause of many fights and distractions. Most of the work aboard a ship is to keep the men busy. If a fight is to start, the way to deal with it is written in the code: ‘No striking one another on board, but every man's quarrels is to be ended on shore, at sword and pistol.’ If the parties won’t come to any reconciliation, I’ll accompany them on shore with what assistance I think proper. It’s not far from your proper English duel. The disputants will be back to back, at some paces distance and at my command, they’ll turn and fire. If both miss, they come to their cutlasses, and the one who draws the first blood, is declared the victor.”

“Y’know,” Louis said, not really reluctant, “piracy isn’t as bad as they make it sound.”

Payne quirked an eyebrow. “Good. What made you realize, if I may ask?”

“Not sure. I just keep telling myself that every night just so I can get to sleep.”

Payne assumed a mockingly swooning position, placing a hand against his heart and staggering backwards to where the captain was monitoring the loading, making sure the cargo was placed so that their ship would sail at the best possible angle – even ballasting the ship was important part of piracy.

“Put that aside. Somewhere safe,” Payne said to a man who was carrying a moderate-looking reddish brown chest that looked heavy, but was not as big as the trunks that held French livres. The lid was in two parts, the chest opening like stable doors.

Louis looked at the box. “A doctor’s chest?” he asked, from no one in particular, unbelieving.

“Worth several dozen guineas,” Niall boasted. “Or a life. A prize forth fightin’ for; medicine is sought after.”

Louis calculated the sum in his mind. “That’s…”

”A fortune. It takes several decades from a blacksmith to make the same amount of money.”

Louis had meant to point out any sum less than hundred was very little. Now he realized _he_ was in dying need of a new perspective. But apparently the crew could be clueless when it came to measuring the value of jewels. A man walked past him, frowning at a jewel the size of his thumbnail and comparing it to the smaller ones his mates had caught. He almost chucked the diamond overboard before Louis snatched it.

“This costs more than this bloody ship you’re standing on,” he lectured him, showing the bright stone so close to the man’s bearded face that he went a little cross-eyed. “Show some respect.”

The man looked at him with widened eyes when Louis gave it back and the man left, caressing the shiny treasure with newfound love. Louis caught the captain’s curious gaze that was directed at him for the umpteenth time that day. And again, Louis avoided him after getting caught looking.

Several other pirates were performing an inventory of the product of their capture and flaunted them in front of their mates before needing to deliver them to the quartermaster. Mixing bowls, firewood, spoons, pots, carpentry tools, even a spare anchor delivered by seven men were carried across the deck and situated to their respective places aboard their ship, including the weapons that would supplement the ship’s armoury.

One joyous carrier of the most prestige jewellery box came to the captain and scooped a large portion of the shiny treasures for them to see.

“Lots of gold detailing…embedded topazes,” he enumerated, a greedy look in his eyes. He now lifted a single necklace out of the box. It shined brightly in the sunlight. “This especially is nice.”

It was not a necklace, but a locket made of pure silver, if Louis saw right – even Crimsonblade spared a glance at the valuable and stopped twirling the old barometer in his hands. It had the silhouette of a bird on it; its wings spread wide and its forked tail poised. _A swallow_. Louis watched as it flied over the intricate, clockwork-like design on the locket’s surface.

The captain took it. As it lay on Crimsonblade’s large palm, the happy man poked the bird on the lid of the locket. “I opened it,” he explained. “There was a nice portrait of a young man inside. The engraving said Louis William Troy James Tomlinson.”

_Oh, no. Not now. Not right now._

Louis had seen many nightmares that lingered even after you had woken up, leaving a feeling as though he had been doused with icy water, the droplets making down his spine, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. The kind of feeling that was hot and cold at the same time in an uncomfortable way. That was how he felt now. He felt nothing but dread over the possibility of Crimsonblade acquiring evidence of Louis’ noble status.

“ _A_ Tomlinson, you said, hmm?”

“Oh, yes. A pretty boy; not much older than fifteen, I would say.”

There was on ocean roaring in his ears. Louis needed to get it away from the captain immediately before the taller man’s sharp green eyes zeroed in on the portrait and saw the prince’s likeliness with his newest subordinate – even in an old painting, some of his characteristics would be very recognizable.

“Give it to me,” he blurted out.

But as soon as he had said it he realized he shouldn't have. When he looked around the deck, more men were looking at him as though he had asked the impossible—many mouths hung open, but equally many were nonplussed, and looking like they were eagerly waiting for the captain to show the small boy his place. The thin, dark brows of the captain rose higher towards the wide brim of his hat and his fist closed around the locket possessively. Louis knew before the condescending smirk had fully formed that there was no way he would be able to obtain the ownership of the locket simply by asking. Nicely or not. He couldn’t believe he would be forced to steal an already stolen necklace.

That is why later aboard _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ , once everyone was getting drunk on the newly acquired strong beverages, he sneaked into the captain’s quarters. The rain had started to come down in sheets and the only ones still enduring the wetness of the maindeck where the ones who absolutely needed to. It had been easy to slip past them, cross the few feet between the ladder and the cabin door soundlessly. Too easy.

The unlocked door should have clued him in.

The prince poked about the drawers, cases, chests; groped under the scrolls of paper and lifted large maps of North Atlantic out of his way. The darkness of the cabin made it hard to tell the difference between a compass and a locket. When Louis quickly glanced to the door to make his final swift check before giving up, his heart jumped all the way to his throat.

There, framed by the light of the lanterns littered on the deck, stood the tall figure with the tell-tale curls. Crimsonblade.

“You really want this, it seems. I wonder why,” the pirate said, dangling the locket between his fingers. He had discarded his wet coat, now only wearing a dark pair of trousers and a white shirt, the fabric soaking wet, clinging to him and showing off the tattoos underneath as the rain had turned the collar and front of the attire translucent. The wet cloth followed the captain’s ridges of hard muscle and the lines of his collarbones. _He must have been freezing cold_ , was Louis’ first coherent thought after swallowing, hard.

“Give it to me.” His voice sounded stupid to his own ears, and very desperate. “Please.”

The captain looked at him; then he smiled. “I rather like seeing you beg. Do it again.”

Louis flushed. He always got what he wanted, and found that he hated whatever got in the way of it, and currently his hatred was targeted at this particular pirate. Thus he walked towards him. Niall’s words ran through his mind. _I think he’s rather fond of the more muscular sex._

“I bet you do,” he said.

The prince circled around him as the captains eyes stayed fixed on him, as green as the cut emeralds embedded in his father’s sceptre, wondering, dazed with their proximity. Louis, equally intoxicated, touched his chest lightly, not breaking eye contact when his hands slid lower over the bodice of the taller man’s shirt and following the subtle curve of his pectoral muscles. Although the fabric was wet, the skin underneath was warm, burning through and heating up the prince’s palm. He gasped as the captain’s hand came around his waist, gripping the skin there and drawing him towards the pirate, pulling their bodies together until there was no space between them.

With their faces just inches apart, the captain’s hot breath hit Louis’ neck and he shuddered with every softly murmured word. “I am quickly becoming rather fond of your way of persuasion.”

Louis looked up at him, lips parted as he breathed, “Does that mean I can get it back?”

 _“’Back’?”_ the captain asked with a sigh, something akin to amusement, and kissed him.

His lips were surprisingly soft for a mouth that was chapped from the sea air. Had Louis initiated a first kiss, it would have been gentle; placing slow butterfly kisses across his partner’s mouth, each reassuring that the person – a use of gender-neutral pronoun he did not consciously acknowledge – was wanted and treasured.

The pirate’s kiss was firmer, though; studying the prince’s mouth intimately, his tongue flicking determinately across the smaller man’s lips who gradually recovered from his dumbfounded state. He brought his hands to the back of the captain’s neck, tangling his fingers in the surprisingly silky long waves of wet curly hair that reached the man’s shoulders.

Louis felt the need to pull him even closer but couldn’t act on it as he was afraid what it all would lead to – the taller man was so passionate, his want for Louis clear in the way his pulse hammered against the prince’s palm, his heart that was thundering inside his chest and the tremble in his hands that still gripped Louis’ middle.

Some unanswered questions that had swum inside the prince’s head, were now answered, the truth finally clicking together with the reality like pieces of a jigsaw. He felt light, as if having won a war he had waged for years and years.

The captain, spurred on by the small brunet’s seeming approval, deepened the kiss with demanding urgency, all but trying to consume the prince who was now letting out little whimpering sounds in the back of his throat. And when he parted his lips to breathe him in, he almost tasted something coppery because of the cut on his upper lip. And then, the edge of the desk suddenly hit Louis’ back, something clattering onto its shiny cluttered surface. He had not realized the taller man had been pushing him back, further into the room.

The pain of the impact was enough to get him to snap out of it, and he broke away from the captain.

“Dear God,” he started, out of breath. “What an Earth was that?”

“I think you know the answer to that yourself.” The captain pulled him back to him, his nose trailing along the other one of the prince’s sharp cheekbones, still a bit red from the exposure to the sun. “Tommo-“

Louis pushed him off of him, or more like held him a little bit away, sure he wouldn’t be able to maintain the distance if the pirate wished to close it again. He only now realized how much he had needed to tilt his head back in order to kiss him.

“ _Nothing_ gave you the right to be that forward. I want you to-,“ he begun but broke off when a knock came from the door causing them to sprung further apart. Louis felt his body grow colder without the taller man’s touch. Never had he thought his first kiss would taste of salty water. Salty water and blood.

“You should leave,” said the captain, trying to remove the evidence of their tryst by carding his hands through his tangled hair – unsuccessfully attempting to make it seem like he hadn’t been draped all over one of his deck crew members just moments ago. While avoiding all eye contact with each other in unison, Louis’ gaze fell on an object on the table just behind him, the object that had dropped from the captain’s hands during the kiss.

The locket.

He snatched it away, hiding it in his pocket and proceeding to look innocent as well, although from slightly different reason. He wasn’t able to school his expression completely as far too many emotions were conflicting inside him, fighting to be the most ruling. His blood still seemed to be humming.

Once the man behind the door got the permission to step in, Louis crossed the room and slipped past the men, through the open door without looking back, grinning in victory as he felt the cold metal of the silver jewellery weight his pocket, cool against the skin of his leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *heavy sigh*  
> And don't know whether I should say 'finally finished' or not because this chapter has been ready for a week but it feels so.... dunno, sloppy-ish. So please, now it's more important than ever to hear from you.  
> What do you think? Does it feel incoherent to you? Skip important things? I might edit it later if there's something major problems with it -.-
> 
> Have a nice weekend! xx -M


	4. Na h-Eileanan Siar

 

“I hope you don’t plan on leaving us when we reach the port.”

Louis shot a surprised look at the first mate who was fixing his hammock beside him. He had not, in fact, thought about it. He wasn’t sure if it was more of a surprise to him or to the others, but he had completely forgotten all his plans of escaping – _if_ he had had them, to begin with. “Why?”

The sleeping quarters still looked exactly as depressing as it had on his first night aboard ship—no windows, frayed hammocks that hung low and high, pails, lanterns—and the place still smelled of old burlap, wet wood and men. Zayn, his head bent over his hammock, looked unfairly beautiful and fresh given that they had woken just mere minutes before. He looked up when he realized Louis had stopped what he was doing.

“I like what your presence does to the captain,” he observed matter-of-factly, as though he had no idea how revolutionary this piece of news would be. “I fear that if you leave, you’ll take with you everything that’s still ingenuous about him.”

The prince blinked several times in quick successions, as if as the pirate was just a mere image and he wanted to snap out of it. When he realized he wasn’t dreaming and regained his voice, he asked incredulously: “Really?”

“Yeah,” Zayn said. “He isn’t particularly pleasant, but he’s not as guarded with his answers. It doesn’t feel like you’ve been walked into a wall of secrets head first – literally.”

Louis let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He had been missing great many meals lately, and if he was truthful with himself, there was only one reason for it: he was avoiding the captain. Because every time he saw him, he wanted to be closer to him; when they sat next to each other, he wanted to touch him; and if they were – accidentally – touching, he wondered what it would be like to be even closer.

He wanted to feel his body against him the way he had in the captain’s quarters, wanted to know if he smelled like sea air and tasted like salt on daily basis; and more importantly, he wanted to make him lose his walls of pretence. Even if it was just to see a glimpse of the man that was under there somewhere.

“He’s been on a right mood the past few days,” Zayn continued, ignoring Louis’ lack of answer. “I’ll give you some credit for that”

Louis would fidget more self-consciously if he weren’t so curious to hear Zayn’s observations about the captain. Partly to figure out what made him tick, partly to satisfy his own need to hear what the man was feeling after their kiss. Louis’ first kiss.

“How do you know it was me?” he asked.

Zayn’s lips quirked up on both corners. “I think that ‘the vertically challenged kleptomaniac’ and ‘the bloody siren of a crewmember’ were very telling.”

Now Louis’ cheeks did heat up. Crimsonblade had talked about him in that context? It sounded like those had been uttered in anger, but what right had he to be upset about it. He had been the one to kiss Louis, stealing the first the prince could have given to someone more worthy. That alone raised a silent rage inside him that wiped out all memories about the theft.

He hummed. “I _am_ able to sing quite well, actually. But good enough to lure men and drown them? No, I do not think so-”

“Zayn?" The anxious caller had a familiar voice _. Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear,_ thought Louis _._ “Zayn, are you there?”

Louis, still facing the first mate, saw the raven haired man’s expression change and thus he looked behind him to gauge what had provoked the widened eyes. It was Crimsonblade, of course, but a very frazzled-looking at that. The captain had stepped into the room in a hurry, seeming to have frozen on the spot when he had seen Louis.

Any lingering hope he may have had about their first, official encounter after the incident happening in positive spirits was wiped out like a charcoal in contact with chamois. Crimsonblade looked horrified, but about what, that remained a mystery to Louis. There was a slight flush on his cheeks as well when the green in his eyes darkened into a colour that represented that of moss. The captain looked away, as if not bearing to look at him any longer, but before that, Louis witnessed his face going blank.

Louis sighed inwardly. _So much for getting rid of the walls…_

He exited the room to give them privacy, the captain’s tense shoulders seeming to loosen up on every step that brought the prince closer to the door and further away from the two men. He wished to say something snarky about it, but talked himself down. It would do nothing good to provoke the curly haired man.

Louis had never before bowed out of a fight someone had already started for him.

It was surprisingly windy on the deck. The gusts ruffled up his deplorably dirty hair and brought tears to his eyes. The strongest of them almost threw him out of balance, and he needed to lean heavily against it in order to advance further on the deck. The sky was grey but darkened gradually into a purple-tinted, bruise-coloured bulk in the far left, casting a dreary shadow on the water. The sea was restless, and the whitecaps looked like foam.

“The wind is picking up,” he heard Ed say as the ginger had just climbed down from the rigging. “The storm will be over us by tomorrow morning.”

 _And what is this_ , he wanted to say. _A gentle zephyr?_

“We need to find a port, right?” he asked. “Somewhere where we can dock and be safe from the tempest.”

“Sure,” Ed agreed, voice hoarse. “The Cap suggested Na h-Eileanan Siar. It doesn’t really matter if it’s a poor one. We just need to exchange the loot for sugar, fabric, tobacco and rum.” He stopped a pail that had started to roll across the deck with his foot. “Zayn doesn’t think the draft is small enough to get us past the rocks but if we round, it’ll cost time. We could make it if our speed’s sufficient for the rudder to bite.”

Louis looked down at the water and wondered how such a large amount of it could be too little. The current seemed fair enough at present to his inexpert eye, but even he knew how quickly the conditions changed at sea. At that moment, an even stronger gust of wind whizzed through the gap between the two masts, another hitting the sails so that the rigging groaned and the fabric let out a banging noise as it fluttered in the blow. Several men were called to ‘reef the sails’, and Louis watched them climb up the ropes and roll one edge of the canvas in on itself.

“Will the wind really damage them?” Louis asked about loudly in order to be heard over the roar of the wind, his throat feeling tight as he anxiously wondered how they would get through the real storm when it eventually reached its full force.

“Or they might damage us,” Ed said, fighting against the gust as well. His baggy trousers fluttered against his thighs in the wind. “Capsize the ship.”

Louis swallowed and looked at the water distrustfully.

They continued they journey towards north. Within the next six hours, the heave of the sea strengthened. Sometimes, when the ship hit the oncoming wave wrong, the bow would hurl the mass of water on board and the saltwater would dripple down the ladder all the way to the orlop deck where Louis spent half of the day, curled on top of the mess-room’s large table. Once they rounded the narrow southern part of the group of islands, safe from the wind that blew from the west, the circumstances got better and Louis finally set his feet back down onto the planking.

It turned out that there were certain advantages about having to drink water that had been considered fresh a month ago: they got to wash themselves. Having been exposed to uncleanness for several weeks, the water had gone bad, and was now useless to anything other than cleaning purposes – they were able to get more once they returned to land, regardless.

The room where they kept the water was a lot longer than it was wide. The barrels were set in even rows along the walls, and those closest to the entry were emptied long ago, the men proceeding further into the room the more barrels had been drained. Currently, there were about three of them. Louis watched the men cup the water straight from the barrel with their hands with wariness and slightly repulsed interest.

Waiting in line for his turn, arms wrapped protectively around his middle, Louis wondered what was happening back on the deck; whether Zayn was still behind the helm, hair wet and windblown, Liam standing nearby and admiring the skill with which the first mate steered the ship. Or pretended that it was the target of his focus. Whether Crimsonblade was still shouting orders above the whoosh of the wind, voice coarse from use as the crewmen danced along his instructions.

Louis tugged the hem of his large white shirt lower, self-consciously rubbing his right foot with the toe of his left foot. The fair hair on his thighs stood erect against the air. Then, the man before him stepped aside, allowing Louis access to the barrel. He felt drawn to it like the wooden object had a gravity of its own, and thus he dipped his hands into the water gratefully.

The water was cold against his skin, and even colder against his body as he wiped his shoulder area with his left hand, rubbing it through his checked shirt in methodical repetitive brushes that bordered on neurotic as he washed away the layer of grime. His hand wiped off the salt of the dried sea air he tasted every time he had brushed the back of his hand across his mouth. Or maybe that had been the sweat he had wiped off of his forehead. He shuddered—and not only from the cold. The water was brownish form the dirt when it ran down his legs to the wet shiny planking, and where warm water would leave fleeting warmth, the cold water managed to chill him all the way to his bones. The shirt clung to his body.

He rubbed and rubbed until both his hand and his torso were red from the friction. He avoided looking at how the men fooled with each other, making horrifying imitations and crude gestures, humping their friends’ backsides. As mortified and scared as the prince was, he was clad to notice their wet, naked bodies failed to bring the blood any lower than his flaming cheeks.

Louis saw the change in himself, though. His skin had gained a pretty, golden tan after three weeks at sea—even when the sun refused to shine, the clouds and the water reflected even the merest beam of light tenfold—and he wondered what his parents would say if they saw him now. The day before, when he had looked at the mirror he had stolen, he had almost though it was broken, because the boy that had looked back at him had almost caused him to drop the thing. The boy in the reflection had had freckled cheeks, red marks from the sunburn, sparkling blue eyes void of the curtain of boredom that had dulled them, and something in his eyes he still couldn’t fully identify. Hope, possibly. He had always thought he spent less time in front of the mirror than the vainest members of the court and remained more or less humble about his looks. But this, this person was someone he would consider worth admiring.

A new him.

 

                                                                                                                    

 

The men were standing in a line, hands extended while the captain, the quartermaster and the first mate split up the treasure captured from the French ship according to their respective obligations on land. The men got their coins, jewels and other useful items that they were to spend and exchange on land. Louis, standing between Ed and one of the gunners at the end of the line facing port, looked at the proceedings with interest, now and again leaning forward as subtly as he could in order to peer at the captain walking slowly up the line past the ginger's head.

“How can they tell?” he whispered to Ed. The prince watched as Crimsonblade dug something from a brown leather pouch. “How much one is to get, I mean?”

“It’s approved that the captain is to have two full shares; the quartermaster is to have one share and one half; the first and second mate and the boatswain will get one share and one quarter.” Louis was glad to note he was able to keep up – he had been taught to handle numbers well. “The rest are divided equally among the company.”

"Let me guess," said Louis. "The code?"

"Exactly."

The captain’s boots clacked past them, then, stopping only briefly to drop a tarnished golden guinea into the ginger’s palm. Louis looked at his own empty hand in confusion.

“Why can’t I have some?” he asked, possibly rather brusquely, given that Crimsonblade turned around, expression tightened. Did _he_ think Louis would run away with the money? Not, he thought, that he had given them a lot to build their trust on, what with stealing the locket and all.

Louis suddenly felt compelled to look anywhere but at the captain.

It wasn’t the curly haired man that answered, but Grimmy, who merely looked at him in faked sympathy from the opposite queue. His voice was imperious as though he got great satisfaction out of pointing it out when he said, “You haven’t been a part of the crew long enough to get such preferences.”

 _“Rubbish!”_ the prince exclaimed, surprising both himself and the men, and pointed at the captain still frozen on his spot. “ _He_ would be a head shorter if it hadn’t been for _me_.”

Crimsonblade's face seemed unreadable, if not slightly troubled with a mixture of embattlement and stubbornness, as though willing to disagree or fight for his bruised pride. Louis' stomach was rolling uncomfortably at his indifference, but there wasn't anything to throw up. He did lean his back against the railing behind him, feeling unsteady.

“I’m quite sure the captain has done his very best to show his” – Grimmy sneered – “measureless gratitude to your gallant gesture.”

They looked at one another for several heavy seconds, until Payne crossed the deck to drop two shillings into his hands. His kind face was twisted into an apologetic frown when Louis still kept his hand expended, expecting more. One look around the deck conformed that no more would come. The plunder was already divided.

“Two?” Louis looked at the nearly blackened coins – the heads was a picture a three, the tails representing the year 1647 and the century, XVII, under it. “This is not enough for new attire!”

“Then you shall steal the rest,” Crimsonblade said. His face was passive. Louis was gradually starting to understand how mutinies arose from the frustration induced by the lack of booty and the unhappiness with the terms made. The captain turned around to face the men on the other side of the deck. His coat swished in the wind. “Be ready at 0600 hours to attend your respective station,” he addressed them all.

Looming faraway, the mass of land was visible through the veil of chilly drizzle: the light house that they had seen in the foremost, a church, small stone crofts littered behind the docks, fenced by low stonewalls, and then the smaller lighter spots he suspected were sheep against the green, grassy hills that broadened into a small blunt topped mountain in the middle of the small island.

There were friends and families of sailors and fishermen on the rickety piers of the place. They didn’t wave, didn’t celebrate; just watched and waited for their fathers and husbands and sons to return from sea, knowing some of them could have been lost to the waves. Even the driving rain and the spasmodic wind didn’t force them to retreat to the shelter of their homes.It was a future they would be forced to face at some point: a new occupation ashore.

Either that or being lost at sea.

Thunder made its presence known somewhere far away. Louis had never been this north before. It was colder, darker and poorer than he had believed. The language was familiar, but also not.

“It doesn’t look very prosperous,” Louis said, looking at the old boats lined along the pier. “Are you sure it will be enough? Any town would have been better. This is a _village_.”

"A village of people who do not know our ship by name,” Ed pointed out. “What we need is very generic, like water and food. Less ‘civilized’ is completely fine.”

They had casted the anchor earlier, causing the ship to lean subtly into the direction of the shore. The men were ordered to lower the wooden rowboat, which had been tied in place on the maindeck, to the still water of the bay.

Louis leaned over the port railing and watched as the water almost streamed in over the edges as the boat sunk deeper into the water from the weight of the enthusiastic pirates that had descended the ladder made from rope and planks. There was almost no room to move the oars. After three loads of horny and thirsty men were carried to shore, Louis got into the fourth load with Niall, Ed, Payne, Zayn and – unfortunately – Crimsonblade. Some men were left to guard the ship.

The shore hardly had a thin border of sand at the water’s edge, after which it transformed into a rocky expanse of both smooth and sharp stones on which Louis nearly twisted his ankle as he helped the men to haul their rowboat further from the waterline. The land under his feet felt strange, and not only because it didn’t see-saw like a ship, but also because it didn’t feel like _home_ anymore. Reaching to brush his fringe away from his eyes, Louis heard the men talking about the women that were catering especially to pirates for, as men who had been at sea for irregular amounts of time, most of the crew enjoyed the presence of the ladies in other ways as well than just sex.

Their company progressed further away from the wide rocky coast, crossing the grassy ground before stepping over a low stone fence, on the other side of which they found a muddy road lined with the stones that cut through the hills. Crimsonblade's long-legged stride soon outdistanced them, leaving Louis behind to watch the curls bounce on every step.

“Where’s he going,” he asked from no one particular, watching the captain’s retreating form. The other four, having only room for finding the inn in their minds, turned around when they noticed Louis wasn’t following them.

“He never visits whore houses,” Liam said, walking backwards. “I guess he just wants a lone place to drink.”

Louis raised his brows. But then again, it made sense that he would be an exception to many rules.  _Did he_ invent _stories to make himself sound worse than he was in reality?_

Niall wasn’t in the mood for tardiness. “Yeah, good riddance though. Don’t want him raining on my parade. C’mon, ya cunts! The rum ain’t gonna walk to us!”

Louis spared one last glace at the back of the lanky pirate and sprinted to catch up with the others. When they walked past the first croft they came across, an older man watched them in distrust from behind his crumbling stone fence, speaking something in a strange language that had lots of unfamiliar intonations, lilts in the vocals, and pauses that blended in together. Niall sniggered as if he understood what he was saying, and proved Louis' suspicion correct when he translated the joke to him.

“He says you remind him of someone he knew in 1572,” the Irishman translated, having trouble with keeping the laughter out of his voice. “He thinks you’re a devil or a possessed soul. He hasn’t decided yet which.”

“Great,” Louis said, voice dripping with sarcasm he didn’t try to cover. He tried to blink the small water drops out of his lashes. “Tell him I was most certainly born in this very century.”

But before Niall was able to calm the man, the oldster pointed at him with a thick, veiny and swollen forefinger and broke into rapid mumbling, eyes wide and bulging. His other hand that gripped his walking stick was white-knuckled.

“Ah,” Niall said. The humour had definitely creeped into his voice now. “He determined you’re a reincarnation of King George IV who he saw in _Béal Feirste –_ Belfast, sorry – seventy five years ago.”

Louis inched away from the man and laughed tersely. “Ha-ha. A King? _Me?_ Now we know he must be mistaken.”

He walked briskly forward. The man continued to look at him when Louis glanced back at him from time to time, bumbling on the ruts the carriages and animal hooves  had excavated onto the dirt, and ducked his head, blushing furiously as two women wheedled at them from the nearest yard, smoking cigarettes and standing in a way that left no questions about their intent. Further from the shore, the grey, stone houses with slate thatches seemed to increase, few of them looking promisingly like they boded both warmth and clothes.

Half hoping to get away from the unwanted attention, he shortly walked through a wooden gate and entered a house that had a little wooden sign hanging above the front door that looked promisingly like it said: _MacLeod and Son – Best Tailoring Since 1234_.

The door creaked a bit, alerting a woman stroking the fire in the little room. She took one look at the pitiful, dripping wet prince, and ushered him inside, babbling something unceasingly. She sat him on a stool in front of the fire and disappeared behind a curtain in the back of the room. Louis let the warm sink into his bones.

The old woman came back with a steaming bowl, a pair of trousers and a shirt. She pointed at them and then at him, and Louis readily translated that as a permission to eat the soup and try on the clothes. When he was putting his feet into the pant legs, he looked about the room.

“Is that your son’s?” he asked. He pointed at the woodwork on a table.

The woman looked at him sadly, placed a hand on her chest and tapped the place trice. Louis ducked is head, looking at the floor and pulling the pants up to his waist. The legs were a bit too long, and he bent to roll them so that his ankles were visible. A voice in his head, a one that sounded distinctly like one of his tutors, was lecturing him how he was not meant to show them unless wearing stockings or high socks, and that he should cease to show himself in such blatantly dishevelled manner.

“These were his, as well, weren’t they?” he observed.

All he got in answer was a pointed push towards the stool and he seated himself again, holding his hand out gratefully to receive the bowl of food. For once in his life he wished he was surrounded by the stiff members of the court, if only to have some money to give for this woman who deserved a reward for unconditionally and wholeheartedly wanting to take care of a stranger.

Although Louis figured she simply liked taking care of a young boy, and in her own selfish way, wanted to relive the feeling of having one of her own again. She sometimes brushed Louis’ hair away from his eyes wistfully.

Half an hour later, well-fed and wearing the new warm wool clothes, carrying the rest of the clothes the woman had insisted upon giving him for free, Louis made his way towards the livelier-looking houses.

The town’s inn was a two stories tall thatched house, its small windows casted an invitingly warm yellow glow to the muddy, yet hard and uneven ground. Inside the house looked a bit less inviting: though the source of the warm glow was situated in the left side of the room – the open fireplace’s flames creating a flickering light onto the pale walls – the stone floor was stained with liquids and hay.

The moment he stepped in, shoes clacking against the floor, Louis located his friends near the wooden staircase that led upstairs. The men had gathered around the largest table on which they had already managed to collect an impressive amount of empty tankards. Niall’s voice was the loudest above the ripple of conversation and the clink of the plates and cups when the prince got closer to them, but the talking grew fainter when they saw him.

“Where did you get those?” they asked from him incredulously, obviously meaning the amount of shirts and trousers on him – about three pairs more than common people used.

Louis grinned. “I stole them, of course.”

Zayn smirked behind his tobacco and Louis sat down, feeling accomplished. He let his gaze wander again, eyes sweeping over to the second floor that was mainly out of the reach of the candle and torchlight, but obviously someone was there, judging by the creaks of the boards. The room was obviously not looked after with care and love, the splinters of the heavy wooden bench digging into his thigh was a proof of that. A woman serving their drinks came to their table. The men ordered what sounded like a tankard of everything they had to offer. She refilled the empty glasses, seeming very aware of the hungry looks she was receiving – and relishing the fact.

“Yeah, pour it all, ma’am.” Niall’s cheeks had gained a reddish tint. “The thing's got edges for a reason.”

Someone jostled their table. “It’s always packed when it rains,” Payne complained.

“I guess when times are rough, the people will seek relief from the hostelries to exchange news. I just overheard two Welshmen talking about a rumour they’d heard from London.” Zayn leaned closer and put a hand before his mouth as if to avoid spilling too many details to curious ears. “They say the crown prince’s dead.”

“But they were _Welsh_ ,” someone said distastefully.

A couple men chortled. “I wonder if cap will be happy to hear that.”

Louis, on the other hand, needed a shot of something strong, possibly something that would burn worse on its way down than the news had. Midst this new hectic life of his, he had forgotten what his disappearance would mean for his mother and his sisters. Had he really been that selfish in finding his own happiness he had forgotten he might destroy his mother’s in the process? Of course, his initial plans had consisted of dragging out his visit in France before reluctantly returning to London, but the eventual return would not be possible anymore, would it?

When the barmaid returned again, he got as he wished. The dark liquid smelled strange, stung his tongue and felt like liquid fire going down his throat. He fought to not make a sound but his face must have betrayed him as Niall pointed at him in delight, mumbling something that was half English, half Gaelic.

Stubbornly, he took a second swig, bigger than the one before but this one didn’t burn as bad. Never had he tasted something this strong back in London – and he just realized he had stopped referring it as _home_.

Niall and a couple others were eyeing up the barmaid again, whose waistcoat showed definitely too much bosom to be appropriate. They talked about her curves, her waist, her hair, and all the while Louis bit his lip and wondered if there really was something wrong with him. The men, who had enjoyed the occasional relief from their mates, notably drooled after a woman that failed to rouse any sort of lust in the prince.

_Why am I different?_

“Saw that, mate? I could fit each breast on my hand nicely.” They proceeded to tell explicitly in detail what they would actually do if they were to put their hands on her. In no polite company, in no context had he ever heard men talk about women like that. But perhaps this, too, was different for pirates? Louis watched some of the other occupants of the inn make drunken grabby hands at her and gripping her wore apron as she passed. _Or not._ He frowned.

“What do ya think?” Niall asked from him expectantly.

“Not my type,” Louis said and winced. The woman must have heard him, giving him a dirty look from where she had been polishing some glasses behind the bar. He blamed his error of etiquette and inability to control the volume of his words on the brown substance.

“What?” Niall asked as if he had heard wrong. “Prefer them skinnier or summat? Perhaps ya haven’t been at sea long enough. If ya had been, we wouldn’t have to spell this shit out for ya.”

“To be frank,” the prince said, “I stopped listening after the word _breasts_.”

The barmaid laughed loudly at a farmer. Louis shot her a sour look. Whether it was because of jealousy towards the attention she was getting or because of the feeling of wrongness he got when he felt nothing for her, the prince started to dislike her giggling. Bitterly, he thought he just needed to find someone with the right kind of laughter. Someone-

“Perfect!”

The Irishman’s exclamation made him turn his gaze back to the table where one of the gunners had placed a deck. Five of the men volunteered, but when Payne asked to join as well, he got a strict prohibition from Niall in the form of _“Cúig!”_ From there started a violent game of _Mayo_ and many complains about ‘never playing cards with an Irishman again’.

Niall’s grin was proud and beaming as he spread his arms wide, nearly hitting Payne in the process. “Gentlemen,” he announced. “My country _invented_ this game.”

The men were a bit more careful in their bidding after that, placing just two coins to the pool. The gunner started to deal the cards until the player on Louis’ left groaned and looked at the Jack in his hands. Louis watched them shuffle the cards, rob the trump turn-up card and exchange it with one of their own with interest, his thoughts drowning out everything that happened inside the room.

“Oh,” said Liam suddenly. He looked at something over Louis’ shoulder. “Hullo, Cap.”

The prince’s head shot up, the jerking movement causing a crick on his neck.

Crimsonblade was standing next to their table, the tips of his curls damp and windswept, shaking his wide brimmed hat that was dripping with moisture. The woman from before fumbled with the empty pints that she had been about to fill, cheeks flushing. She looked at Crimsonblade the way Louis guessed most females did: with mouth slightly parted in open wonder, as if she couldn’t believe the image before her very eyes was real.

Louis wasn’t sure whether he wanted to tell her the captain looked even better _without_ the coat that hid his wet shirt, or warn her about the danger of falling for his dimpled charm. But was there a way that didn’t make him sound like a hypocrite?

“I just got kicked out of the nearest inn,” the captain said. “There was a little disagreement with the owner who upended a tankard of ale over my head. Now, I’m on my way to find some _company_.”

The men whistled. Louis’ eyes narrowed towards the woman who preened after the last words. He scoffed, suddenly less concerned about hurting her feelings if she overheard him.

“Goodness,” Louis said. “If you keep seeing your prudish Frenchwomen like this, they’ll soon expect you to declare your intentions.”

The men howled. The captain looked at him with peculiar expression that was hard to read. Otherwise he just acted like he hadn’t heard him. He left soon and Niall didn’t waste time to lean over the table and say, “I like the way you handle him.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

He left shortly after, shoes slipping in the mud outside.

The walk back to the shoreline went surprisingly quickly – although it was possible that the fear of running into other senile men who confused him with his grandfather was a significant factor. It did help him catch up with the captain whose figure was barely discernible against the grey night. He was standing on the rocks next to the oarsman whose lantern's light played across their features.

 _Or late evening_ , he thought as he heard the man talking to Crimsonblade point out how early it was.

“Just not feeling it tonight, Scott,” was the captain’s answer. “Get me back to the ship.”

“Oi!” Louis shouted, and only after the men turned around wearing equally quizzical expressions, did he realize it must have come out a bit more forcefully than he had initially intended. “Wait for me.”

‘Scott’ looked between the two of them, raising his eyebrows at the captain meaningfully with a sly smirk but Crimsonblade was looking at Louis. He looked resigned, face adorned with his habitual scowl. Even though he was prone to occasional fits of anger towards him, this unjust sullenness was positively obnoxious. Maybe he felt a greater need to assert his status as a feared pirate captain when there was a third party present. And to think Louis had saved his life once...

“Should have known,” the pirate mumbled and turned back to Scott. “Change of plans. He’ll come with me, apparently.”

Under the curious gaze of Scott and the cold glare of the captain, Louis found himself wondering if the way the rain had plastered his hair to his head and temples looked horribly unflattering. Not that it really mattered, of course, because there was no one to impress, he told himself. The convincing didn't stop him from fidgeting nervously beside the taller man as the oarsman worked with the boat.

When Scott had pushed it into the water and started to scull them to the ship, the charged air between them didn’t change much even though there was a man separating them from one another.

Crimsonblade was leaning casually against the prow, watching the patterns in the water as the oars broke its surface when they went under and resurfaced again and again. Louis was more intent on watching him, needing to say something but not knowing how to bring it up. He looked at Scott and startled when he noticed the man had been still looking at him calculatingly. He guiltily wondered if he had been caught staring at the captain over his shoulders.

 _How many times has he brought his captain back to the ship?_ Louis thought. _How many_ _of those times has he been alone? How many times has he brought a man with him if he doesn’t fancy a woman? How many of those times has been just that: one time?_

Louis looked at the men in turn, figuring that this might just be the only time he could talk to the captain now that he had no place to run to. His throat felt try all of a sudden and he cleared his throat. “May I have a word with you?”

He ignored Scott’s snigger at his wording and viewed the curly one instead. He looked troubled, shooting glances at the back of the oarsman his posture remarkably less relaxed, more stiff and guarded. Louis briefly wondered how many people had actually witnessed the true him - the one that had wasn't hidden behind other masks as well as his alias.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” His eyes glittered a challenge.

A sinking feeling went through Louis’ body and the prince’s shoulders slumped. For someone he had just kissed briefly, the captain had a frightening power over his emotions. _Why did his dismissal hurt so much?_

“I’m tired and drunk,” Crimsonblade continued and gripped the side of the boat as if to stress nothing but drunkenness should be expected from him at this stage. He reached under the folds of his jacket and took out a metallic flask, taking a swig from it. Louis followed the movement of his throat. "I have no time for your trivia."

Scott seemed unruffled by their quarrel, continuing to row. But as most of the trip was spent on hesitating over what to say, they reached the ship before Louis could perfect his magnificent comeback. The captain touched the ladder on the flank of the hull and gestured Louis to go first.

“Ladies first,” he said. Louis made a noise in the back of his throat he hadn't even realized he was capable of making.

“Fine.” Louis seethed. The alcohol was igniting a fire inside his veins, urging his already fiery temperament to new heights. “But you had better not stare at my bum.”

He grabbed the first plank aggressively, pulling the ladder from the pirate's grip and started to ascend, thinking of thing he could harm, and possibly kill, the captain with.

It was only when he had returned to his sleeping place that he realized: even though the captain had been drinking all evening, and had had a pint of ale dumped on him in the middle of a fight, he didn’t smell a one drop of alcohol on his breath or on his immaculate clothes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii,  
> A bit shorter as nothing really happened.... more larry in the next chapter! I'm currently procrastinating one or five essays/projects/whatever sooooo here you go :)  
> Feedback is appreciated of course ^^ i might edit this chapter as well later but for now: enjoy!
> 
> Happy hallowe'en for everyone!!! [insert spooky emoji] xx -M


	5. Seul à seul

Louis was on his way to the mess-room to see what broth Niall was brewing that day when he heard voices coming from the left, covered from sight by the large stanchion. Had he been back in London, he would have just walked past it, leaving the boring trivia of gossip behind; but now. Now he was simply too curious. He had been shocked after seeing what the pirate life was like; to find that things were so far from what he had been used to, and what he had believed it to be. First, the fact that no one aboard the ship understood the meaning of secrets had surprised him. It appeared that the crew shared everything with each other and in order to live in such close quarters with each other, they mustn’t keep things to themselves.

Because of this, it was surprising to hear someone whispering rather agitatedly with another member of the crew in a remarkably distant location such as this. It piqued his interest to see who – and what – was the cause of the secretiveness. He recognized Payne’s voice now as he argued with someone, lowered to a hiss that was easily drowned out by the roar of the sea around them as it hit the hull. The voice that answered was no louder but the rich accent that made the word sound like lisped speak was familiar and easily pinpointed.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” Payne was saying as Louis pressed himself closer to the stanchion. “All this time we’ve been together and you confide in _him_. Why am I not allowed to know where my spouse had sneaked off to?”

 _“Liam_ …” Zayn’s voice was almost a plea as he vocalized his partner’s Christian name.

“No, I’m not letting this go again. It’s been years since I was first left in the dark after you just... _vanished_.” Louis fought off the urge to stop intruding their private moment. It was now clear why they had been hiding. Payne’s – Liam’s – voice sounded almost tearful when he continued, “Years, Zee.”

“I’ve told you I’ll tell you everything about anything you wish to when I’m ready.”

Louis almost heard the quartermaster rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right. And you were ready to tell ‘Harold’ all about it before you even really knew him?”

 _Harold?_ Louis mouthed silently, frowning. He carefully craned his neck to get a closer look of them, steadying himself with a hand placed on the stanchion. And he had been right. Zayn and Liam stood there stiffly amid the shadows of the corner and entirely engaged with their fight so Louis shouldn’t have been worried about getting caught. Liam was currently glaring a hole into the nearest wall, oblivious to the fact Zayn was gazing at him, the way one did when one felt one was unobserved. He had a look on his face – a look one usually gave to something one was completely caught up and entranced with.

Louis’ insides twisted when looking at him. There was true ethereal beauty in him; a beauty that was almost unnatural in its lack of imperfections, and left him a bit cold despite his slight jealousy. The prince had always appreciated natural looks over wigs and heavy paints – not that the first mate’s looks were artificial – but he appreciated the humble splendour of small defects on a human.

 _Like quirky ears,_ his mind added unhelpfully but the prince silenced it immediately.

“He has nothing to do with this. You know he saved my life and I own everything to him. My religion does not take that sort of thing lightly,” Zayn was saying rubbing his brow. “Do you have any idea how selfish this makes you sound?”

Now Louis did have to turn his head away before he also saw the way Liam gasped, wounded by the claim no matter how much truth was behind the defensive words of the first mate. With utmost caution, the prince removed himself from the stanchion and walked to the direction of the mess-room, but before he got there he saw a familiar lanky figure disappearing into the repository where they kept their barrels of fresh water.

He followed him—and blocked his way out by standing in the middle of the entry, hands on his waist. Without announcing his presence further, he demanded, “I need to speak with you.”

Crimsonblade was dipping a ladle in the water, pouring the liquid to the flask he had in his left hand. Is that what he drank from it? _Water?_ Louis wasn’t sure how it made him feel exactly. The captain seemed to have abandoned his hat, clad in a white checked shirt and dark pants, reminding Louis of that night a bit too uncannily.

It took a while from the captain to break the silence that was gradually getting awkward. “Well, I don’t see any other choice” he said. Louis was taken aback; he had expected stronger resistance. “You have me cornered.”

Louis, who could practically sense the puns he would make from that, said impatiently, “Yes, yes. The whole France would rip their arms off to have similar privilege. But as you see, I still have my limbs intact.”

Something flickered in Crimsonblade’s eyes. “Undoubtedly. You want us to talk about the kiss, yes?”

Now that he had mentioned it, the air between them felt loaded, the two of them becoming two predators preparing to fight over their territory. It also opened the floodgates into Louis memories, images of his own hands tangled in the curly hair, lips against lips, and the captain’s hands on his waist where his own hands were now. He blinked many times in succession, afraid that his companion could have been able to see them, too.

“Yes.”

The captain cocked his head. “And you want to hear how sorry I am about it?”

Louis shook his head. “No.”

A smirk was gradually making its way back to the captain’s face. “So you don’t regret it?”

That pushed Louis out of his state of one-word answers. “I didn’t say that. What I meant is that it’s a bit too late to apologize about something that happened so long ago. You had your chances, yet you didn’t make use of them.”

Crimsonblade put the lid back onto the barrel. The clang was loud in the silence. He ran his hands through his hair, procrastinating. “Then what is it that you want from me?”

“I want to know why.” _Why did you avoid me if it meant nothing to you? Why did it feel like you really wanted me? Why do you look at me like I am a new species you found, and only recently realized I wasn’t that attractive in the end?_

“Why?” the captain asked like that question was impossible to answer and thus would have been tactless to ask. “Why is anyone doing anything? You practically jumped me. I just continued where you left.”

Louis’ hands dropped to his sides, fists clenched. “No, _you_ are the thief here first and foremost – as a man, and as a lover. _You_ steal things from people without remorse. So _you_ tell me why you make me sound like the cheap person here!”

“Because you are?” the captain answered childishly, watching over the prince’s shoulder as if calculating his chances at getting away. “I don’t really know you after all.”

Louis could feel his walls building stronger like a physical power forcing him to back away. “You are keeping information from the crew as well,” he pointed out. “You are as much of a stranger to them as I am.”

The taller man looked wary, but Louis seemed to have struck a nerve – not one that would have provoked him to snap back, but one that caused a sad, worn expression to cross his features. The prince briefly wondered whether he had really hurt his feelings and regretted his harsh word immediately.

“You are nothing but a child with a foolish crush,” the pirate spat.

A muscle twitched in the prince’s jaw. “I am eighteen! You think you are all mysterious and shit, but guess what, this whole ‘to be angry or not to be angry’ is simply your conscience battling against your head and I am rooting for the Captain Good and Honest.”

“And _you_ think you can figure me out. It’s a game to you, isn’t it?” The captain’s grimace was somehow beautiful – perhaps in a fallen angel sort of way. “Good luck with that. And I’m sorry it’s the only agreeable occupation I can offer for you while aboard this ship.”

He shouldered past Louis, carefully avoiding more physical contact than what was needed. Behind him, someone let out a relieved exhale. “Ah, there you are. I wondered where you disappeared. Niall just finished heating our food and everyone is already in the mess-room, looking famished.”

Louis gave a guilty start. He wondered how long Liam had been standing there and what he had heard – although the quartermaster had proved to be rather oblivious to some things happening around him. He quickly glanced past Liam but the captain was long gone. No sight of him in the dim corridor.

“Sorry” he offered. “I needed to fill my wineskin and it was a bit crowded.” He’s excuse sounded terribly weak coming from someone who had a nice record of feigning illnesses and coming up with runarounds all his life. Liam smiled. There was just a slight shine to his eyes that was the only proof of his fight with Zayn just moments ago.

“Well come on then before the meat gets cold!”

He ushered him into the mess-room from where the footsteps and the happy chatter had been able to be heard all the way to the other end of the orlop deck. The room was more brightly lit than he had ever seen it and the table was set with more plates than its length should have allowed. Niall had obviously made them something special judging from the amount of hungry mouths around the table. And also the reason why there were only three vacant seats, Louis taking the one next to Al and Liam the one next to Zayn, surprisingly. They had gotten over their problem, it seemed. Louis wondered what it had been about.

A bowl of soup with big chunks of meat landed in front of him so that some of the broth spilled over the edges. Louis dunked his wooden spoon in carefully and seized an exceptionally enormous-looking piece of brown, steaming meat that definitely wasn’t chicken, nor was it pork. He narrowed his eyes at it. “What is this?”

“Turtle,” was the answer from Liam who had tucked in, using a fork. The others were slurping it with relish as well, spoons clanking, mouths chewing, heedless of a young man who was starting to get a bit green in the face.

“T-turtle? As in the shell-covered animal?” he made sure. “Turtle?”

“Yeah, and?” asked a cheery Niall, stirring the pot and seeing no harm in eating such animal. The steam from the hot soup had turned his hair into a blond, spongy wilderness, cheeks red and glossy.

“Why?” was all that got past Louis’ lips.

“We need meat. Unfortunately it has a habit of becoming stale, but a turtle can survive months without water so it’s kept as some sort of crew’s pet before it’s killed and put into the pot.”

Louis pushed the bowl further away from him.

“We had one once, remember?” Grimmy asked. “Didn’t we Liam?”

“Yeah, woke up one day and it was missing a foot. Will said he had needed a small snack in the middle of the night. Never really got over that.”

“Will was the Irish cook, right? I remember him. Mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes, potato pie…I swear the sauce was made of potato, too.”

“That,” Niall said, waving his spoon, “would be an affront towards other food.”

The crew kept up a lively chatter, telling each other what had happened that morning and reliving some apparently memorable occasions while talking about the ship and sailing in general as though it was a hobby they were enamoured with. And again, Louis was amazed by the lack of honorifics in the way the addressed one another. It seemed that only the captain was called something other than the name he had given. Or was that not for the sake of the custom, but simply because they did not know it? As if he had a sixth sense for detecting whenever Louis thought of him, the captain soon entered the mess-room with a swish of his coat’s hem, which he seemed to have searched out again, and the prince couldn't help but notice he was the only one obsessively noting his every movement. Crimsonblade took the only vacant seat. Next to Louis.

Immediately Louis could feel the heat emanating from him, their legs pressed together. Louis was more conscious of the captain than he had ever been of anyone or anything in his life, of the scatter of moles on his chin, of the way he brushed his hair away from his eyes with a rakish movement of his hand with his fingers splayed – and more than anything else of his eyes. If he had been brave enough to turn his head to the right, and less angry, he would have seen the individual hairs of his stubble, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he drank, and something silver flickering on his chest – a cross.

Across him, Grimmy had struck up a conversation with Crimsonblade over the table. “I heard people talking about _guano_ in the inn.”―Louis nearly choked on his spit―“It’s a precious trading product of the Colonies, it seems. A ship from Peru is coming our way. Should we take charge, captain?”

The captain pretended to consider but Louis had seen his lips twitch. “I think this treasure will be too much even for us,” the captain said, eyes slightly crinkled with barely contained mirth. Grimmy frowned – the men probably had never faced ‘an impossible challenge’.

Niall’s hand reached past his shoulder, through the small gap between them and placed a bowl in front of Crimsonblade who took one look at it, eyes narrowing. Moments later, in spite of the pleas of the crew, he rose from the table, having barely touched the food, leaving Louis to wonder if he had some sort of deal to boycott marine wildlife based food. Moreover, he seemed to have returned to his previous bad mood, and Louis, who still felt guilty about possibly hurting his feelings and unleashing this angrier version of him, went after him.

Walking through the gundeck, the captain ducked expertly around the wooden beams that hung threateningly low – the decks were set up so that the cannons were the proper distance above the surface of the sea, leaving the decks only five feet apart. It goes without mentioning that crouching was very common.

“I’m sorry,” Louis blurted out to the tense back of the captain.

That seemed to startle the taller man. He turned to face the brunette. “Apology accepted,” he said. “Though I have to admit I wasn’t waiting for one. You keep surprising me every day.”

Louis wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. He also noted the captain hadn’t apologized to nor thanked anyone thus far and, after some consideration, came to the conclusion that showing weakness―whether it was about needing assistance or about admitting being wrong―wasn’t his cup of tea.

“So,” he started conversationally. “You don’t trade bird droppings, either, I take it.”

The captain’s lips stretched into a wide smile. “My crew is one of the best but unfortunately they all were very measly educated.”

They rose up the ladder to the main deck and were greeted by the sight of the cold and bright sky of the north. The sun had risen so late that morning, and _still_ was far too low in the horizon for his liking, and not really giving away warmth at all. He crossed his arms in front if his chest and hunched his shoulders to ward off the chilly wind that seemed constant nowadays.

Crimsonblade walked towards the prow, Louis trailing right behind him like a lost puppy. There was a weary droop in his lids _,_ and Louis reasoned me might suffer from insomnia in his mind as he watched Crimsonblade trail his fingers lovingly across the balustrade; almost a caress. The touch was softer than he had ever seen him make, counting the time the pirate had touched his cheek after their kiss.

“How old is it?” asked Louis, meaning the ship.

 _“She_ has been mine for three years, and had served others about a decade before I captured it. Relatively young but she’s advanced,” the captain said, so matter-of-fact that there seemed to be nothing conceited about the statement. “Her flank is faster than those of older boats.”

Louis’ mind drew a blank. “Flank?”

“Maximum speed.”

"Do you have a nickname for _her_ as well?” It was mostly out of spite, but there was some curiosity behind his question.

“Anne,” Crimsonblade said with a soft smile the prince had never seen. They had now reached the forecastle deck, near the bowsprit.

“Past lover?”

“My mother.” And thus the subject was hastily closed by his tone. Everything, _everything_ Louis tried to initiate had always been shattered like a shipwreck. Maybe the key to unravel him was to let him start first. He vowed himself to stay away from him and wait for the frost to usher the stray pig home.

 

                                                                                                                    

 

“These come with shafts as well!?”

His incredulous and more than a bit wounded voice ricocheted in the empty space and metal in the room as the prince held a broomstick in his hands. Granted, the thing had seen better days but so had his back that had suffered through all the crouching and kneeling apparently for nothing.

“What?” Liam asked. “Don’t tell me you have never seen a broom before.”

“Ha-ha,” snarled Louis who didn’t like the gleeful look on the quartermaster’s face. “Of course I have. You could have just shown me this before making me scrub the deck for the seventh time.” He winced. “My back shall never fully recover.”

Liam looked about ready to whack him with the broom but he smiled it off. “Yeah, well. Don’t say it didn’t teach you some humility.”

“Humility? _Humility?”_

The pirate felt Louis’ fury and stepped further away from him. It didn’t help for he bumped up against the hull of the ship. The prince prodded the end of the broom into his annoyingly firm stomach.

“I am plenty modest,” he quipped. Then he lowered his broom, or a _swab_ , and dipped it into the pail full of goo. “It’s embarrassing enough that you are here as a chaperone. I swear it was not my fault Grimmy got in the way of my swab. How do you expect us to see anything in this light anyway?”

The space was windowless as usual, but flat, iron-looking bars ran from floor to ceiling on left and right and their hinged metal doors were made of bars themselves. The only, lone source of light came from a lantern, whose flame flickered because off the draft, almost snuffing out several times. It only added to the creepy atmosphere the shadows created; the bars of the brigs threw a checkered design on the planking. The rush of the water was somehow fainter, yet louder at the same time here, at the very bottom level of the ship.

“What happened to the ‘I have the eyes of a hawk’ as you claimed earlier this morning?”

“Left him on the deck,” Louis muttered and brushed fringe to the right. Partially just for the show, Louis arches his back, causing a cracking sound that was drowned out by his relieved and notably exaggerated moan. A set of brass keys tingled somewhere behind him, and given that there was only one person in possession the key to the forbidden treasury, Louis knew whose glare heated his neck with its intensity.

Mentally, though, he gave himself a bit pat for his idea. _Look who’s the juvenile one of us now._

He had no idea about making oneself more attractive or captivating—it had been improper to try—but he did his best, searching for reaction. The only thing that happened was one pair of retreating footsteps. He exhaled, unaware of having held his breath, and felt both relieving and disappointing.

His next sweep hit the brig. The bars pealed out, like very equivocal church bells. He tried the sound again.

Liam grabbed the swab from him. He hissed, “Just quit it. You’ll wake up even the dead.”

“Funny that you mentioned that.” Louis pointed at the brig. “Do you use those often?”

“We don’t take prisoners. Sometimes we put the misbehavers there.” He gave Louis a look that told him he was considering putting him in there for drenching the boatswain in the mixture of wax and tar. “Just to wait for their verdict. Also liars.”

Louis turned his head sharply towards him. Firmly and demandingly, maybe to cover the slight tremor in his voice, he asked, “Why?”

“Rule II. from the code,” Liam said and proceeded to recite the part of the code word to word. “If any Man shall give away or keep any Secret from the Company, he shall be marooned or Shot’.”

The silver locket in Louis’ pocket seemed to grow in weight. “Isn’t the captain keeping secrets by refusing to disclose the whereabouts of the treasure?” he asked cleverly.

“The code doesn’t always make sense—we’re pirates after all—but it does save men from certain, uh, temptations.”

“Temptations…?” Louis repeated slowly, nodding along with his brows upraised in mocking amusement.

“Yeah, but we don’t take the rules lightly even though the punishments are mild compared to some.”

“What is ‘mild’ about being abandoned on a deserted island?”

“It is when compared to cat o’ nine tails.” It was said with a shudder so Louis was appropriately spooked by the idea though it sounded funny. “It’s a short whip that has, as the name suggests, nine ‘tails’ that shreds the meat off of your bones if you’re hit hard enough. It’s also called _the captain’s daughter_.” He must have seen something on Louis’ face as he swiftly reached to firmly clap the smaller man on the back. “Not that you should have anything to worry about. It takes a lot to anger me or the captain.”

There necessarily wasn’t anything patronizing in the quartermaster’s tone, but Louis felt the need to defend his pride. “I’ve seen the captain angry.”

Liam didn’t look surprised. “You have? What did he do?”

“Uh,” Louis hindered. “He raised his voice.” Now that he told it, it sounded so simple, _lame_ , not worth mentioning.

“Really?” Liam looked amused again now. “An angry captain is violent, releasing his inner pain by demolishing everything inanimate he comes across. Is that the Crimsonblade you saw?” Louis shook his head. “I didn’t think so. Now, swab, swab.”

Louis shot him a murderous look.

Later that night, and after several portions of rum, Liam was arranging his collection of white sea shells into a line along the railing as orderly as he could in his inebriated state of mind. He must have seen everything in two or three at this point. Every time he nodded off, head lolling, chin propped up on his hand that rested on the rail, Louis would flick one or two shells away, watch them drop back into the ocean they belonged to.

Liam would later wake up, look at his collection in confusion and say: “I swear there was seven of them. Now, there’s just five” while pointing at the remaining two.

The prince was having so much fun he actually, _finally_ , was able to forget all the social classes between them that had been pressing him like a vice. A prince was, without question, under the king and queen in power but, as a monarch, he was above the nobility and gentry, and definitely way above yeomen, gentlemen, professions, merchants and husbandsmen. But where did a pirate lay?

An outlaw was neither a vagrant, nor a surf, but something even lower and more despised. They did not pay taxes. They did not own land. Never had he been more aware of the five million people that were considered inferior to him. So Louis did the only thing he had mastered during his stay on the ship—he pushed it all to the back of his mind, which was easier and easier by time.

If it only was possibly to ignore a certain pirate captain as painlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh my God,  
> This is so late and what a (don't really have words for this) pain in the arse. RANT WARNING! I got a new computer for early Christmas present and first I had to get the link from my uni to instal Word2013 for free and then I had to actually finish the chapter and then!! Then it wouldn't even copy properly. Where were the blanks? The chapter breaks? The italics??
> 
> Ugh, well, on a happier note: I saw writing-about-larry.tumblr.com had recced this fic and now I have been fueled for the restof the December <3
> 
> Anyway, hope you had a lovely time reading this update. Next one has Harry P.O.V!!! xx -M


	6. Pleasure and Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'M ON FIRE!!! AHAHAHAA!!!  
> I'm going away for the new years (mandatory socializing with the fam) so I decided to post this today! Very happy with this chapter, but comments are super appreciated! And thank you for everyone who has commented, given kudos or subscribed coz that fuels me to continue and try harder <3
> 
> Happy 2016 to everyone xoxoxo -M

If there was something truthful about the things he had said in the presence of Ms. Calder, it was that he did love the pale orange of a sunset. Besides, traveling the speed of fourteen knots, nautical miles per hour, did leave time to observe one’s surroundings at ease. Not that there was anything more to look at than just the endless expanse of water and the natural art of the sky.

They had started to retreat towards south as the winter had finally descended upon them in its full-blown wrath, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since that one year the Thames had completely frozen over. The crew had been in need of warm clothing and quilts to sleep under so they had looted an English ship that carried expensive fabrics. From there, they had managed to force a doctor aboard, mercifully for those who had fallen prey to the harsh weather.

Watching the colours of the dying day, Louis let himself surrender to the embrace of his memories, of his mother singing him to sleep when he was ten and afraid of the dark and sinister corners of his bed chamber. He had never admitted he was scared—not out loud—but his mother must have seen his fear in the small, subtle gestures that had given him away.

  
_”Bonne nuit, mon ange_  
_Maintenant c'est l'heure de rêver_  
_Et de rêver combien ta vie sera merveilleuse_  
_Un jour ton enfant pleurera peut-être_  
_Et si tu chantes cette berceuse_  
_Alors dans ton cœur_  
_Il y aura toujours une part de moi”_

 

“A French lullaby?” a voice said, not sarcastically. “Exquisite.”

Louis startled. His gasp released a cloud of condensed moisture into the air, rising off of him like the mist off Thames. “My mother is partly Belgian. She likes to keep up with traditions.”

His company’s footsteps drew nearer. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I wanted to see what the sunset looked like at sea,” he answered, trying in vain to not look at the curly haired man who took position right beside him. Thinking about his mother and whether they were looking for him had left him too raw and open for his comfort.

The captain stayed there, leaning on the same balustrade and making Louis uncomfortable; not only because he disliked his presence but because he made him feel strange. The sundown painted his face in hues of orange and rose, and shadows assembled on their features. Félicité had always complained how the twilight made her skin’s pallor—the delicate complexion every gentlewoman was trying to achieve—orange tinted. On Crimsonblade, it looked good; breath-taking and unearthly, but also sinful.

The prince lowered his gaze to the railing, studying the old marks of attacks; black spots that looked like scorch marks, chips where blades and grappling hooks had sunk into the solid wood. A history of the ship told by cracks and discolouration.

“You shouldn’t sing aboard.”

Louis shot him a surprised look. “What for?”

It was the first time he had been alone with him for a while, not since the failed confrontation when the taller man had told him their kiss was as meaningful to him as a night with a prostitute would be. Actually, the captain had acted as if the kiss never happened, although the tension between them spoke of another story whenever they were near one another.

And maybe it was easier to bury the feelings when there were others present – easier to return to normal, polite exchanges that were expected from a captain and his crewmember. But now, with the vision of Crimsonblade that had materialized in front of him – handsome as always, coat open to show off his smooth chest where the sunset traced the dents between planes of muscle, and hair ends curling like corkscrew – all the memories rose again and prevented him from talking.

“It’s too clean. They say it allures the Kraken. Some go as far as saying it is the sirens that call the beast to attack ships that managed to escape their singing.”

 _Bloody siren of a crewmember._ Louis flushed. “You must be joking.”

“You would be surprised what an active imagination does to a man, Tommo. After all,” he said with an air of someone who was going to share great wisdom, “a great mind does not exist without a touch of madness.”

If Louis had ever wished to be called Your Highness or Sir or something equally generic, it was now. Because hearing his name – even the nickname he had chosen for himself – managed to loosen something inside him, making him less guarded to whatever insult would be next voiced by the captain’s treacherous, plump lips. He was relieved he would never hear the man utter his Christian name.

Louis, tugging his quilt tighter around his body, watched Crimsonblade fiddle with the cross that hung from the chain around his neck. “Do you believe in God?” he asked curiously.

The captain looked at him measuredly. “Not really. If he was real, he has a funny way of showing us his love and mercifulness.”

Louis gasped, horrified. He thought it was a rather bold thing to say while caressing symbol of his religion. “Maybe there are persons who are not worth of redemption. God does not welcome bribe or give salvation to those who have sinned.”

“Perhaps not your God.”

“You are Catholic?”

“I am fully aware that England's independence from Rome was reasserted through the settlement of 1559 because of your disagreements with the Pope. If there were piracy on land, the Borgia would be the definition of it. I merely honour their ambition.”

Louis’ brows rose. His sarcastic, “No wonder the crew elected you. The foes were eliminated by arsenic poisoning,” earned an abrupt laugh out of the captain who clamped a hand in front of his mouth, eyes dancing with mirth behind it.

There was something gratifying about being a subject of interest for such a magnificent individual, but it was equal parts terrifying. Besides, he was only slightly miffed when he noticed there was only a sliver of pink visible over the horizon.

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence—talking was overrated and had done nothing good to them anyway—as the prince and the pirate watched the moon and the stars; the brightest seeming to light up only after the rest of the world had gotten dark, out of the reach of predatory human hands. Cold and untouchable. Like virgin queens.

 

                                                                                                                

  
  
_Sleep tight, princess._

The words floated through his brain like a memory of either real life or a dream. It was Crimsonblade’s voice, unmistakably, and it roused Louis from his sleep, causing the prince to bolt upright in what seemed to be a soft bunkbed. Briefly, he wondered whether the night had been just a very strange dream – he ignored the tiny pinch in his chest that accompanied the thought – but as he looked around him blearily, it became clear that he had managed to communicate with the pirate captain at last.

Dark wood, chairs, a large window. The vast space of the captain’s quarters spread out before him, and he remembered little of how he had gotten there. But he could guess it had something to do with the fact the captain’s face in the ghostly morning light was the last thing he remembered seeing.

Louis checked his clothing, panicking. He slapped his hand against his thighs, feeling for the now familiar bump of the locket, and when his fingers came across it, he sighed in relief. It was his life insurance – if someone else got it, he would be marooned faster than he could say ‘Parley?’

He creeped out of the bed carefully, examining his surroundings. He saw a bathtub, hidden behind a screen that had covered it from sight on Louis’ earlier visits; it was an oval claw-footed thing that surely had been part of a fleet if not already part of the ship when Crimsonblade had captured it. Louis longed to feel hot water of a bath around him, the heat soaking into his chilled bones. He closed his eyes—

_His newly tan body would be submerged in the water, the liquid collecting on the indentations of his collarbones. The light would reflect on the smooth and bare skin of his stomach until the line where it met the hot bathwater. The tattoos on the flat planes of his body, and possibly a few on the ribs, would continue like a trail towards his hips. His head would be thrown back in pleasure, the sharp angles of his jawline visible, and his curly hair wet and almost as black as ink…_

His eyes snapped open. And landed on the sleeping form of Crimsonblade, apparently asleep on his chair behind the desk. He didn’t look bitter in his sleep but Louis wouldn’t go as far as saying the sleep made him look vulnerable. Because that he surely was not. Even his sleepy form looked about ready to spring into a fight if needed.

Stepping stealthily around, he tried to soak up what he could from the few personal objects around the room; mostly art in form of wooden statues from various cultures. If they were tokens from his first loots, like Louis barely let himself to hope, the captain would prove to be more sentimental then he let on.

He turned to face the next wall. And stared.

The statues on this side of the room were a sight to behold. Louis, whose cheeks were flaming, beheld with widened eyes the distinctly anthropoid figures with prominent, and very probably, exaggeratedly big genitalia if his own was anything to go by.

“Ah,” stated a voice roughened by sleep, “I see you have found my little collection.”

The captain had apparently sneaked up on him, coming to stand right behind him. He righted a statue that had toppled like a gentleman that arranged his stuffed hunting prey. Perhaps this was his way to exert control over the things that he actually had the means to control unlike whatever had happened to him, Louis pondered, and hated that he might be right.

“These I got from a ship that had raided a village somewhere in the western coast of Africa. There are a lot of cultures that worship fertility out there. Pretty, aren’t they?”

The prince, whose cheekbones hadn’t stopped burning, said nothing. The captain’s close pressed lips started to tremble and as he shook his head, several dark curls fell over his eyes.

“You are so easy to tease, Tom.” Louis felt a jolt go through him. Even though it was not his real name, he appreciated the emotion that had prodded him into calling Louis ‘Tom’. It was like banter between friends. But they weren’t friends, were they? Friends did not do what they had done. The captain’s steady gaze held his.

Louis had seen people with green eyes, his tutor had been one, but they had been mostly old, the green dulled by age when compared to the vibrant green of the young captain. His eyes were like the green velvet on which someone had sprinkled gold dust, glimmering ethereally when they caught light and seemed to be catching fire.

A creak came from the other side of the door and Louis’ heart leaped. He tore his eyes away from the captain’s, swearing angrily at himself for his stupidity; that after everything that had happened, he was letting him affect him with just a blink of those vividly green eyes.

“I think it’s quite late. Excuse me, I have a deck to swab,” he said, revelling on the satisfaction that arose after having been able to say it back to him in the same dismissive tone. He wondered if Crimsonblade looked hurt or if he was annoyed by it like Louis had been, but he didn’t let himself look back. He feared that if he did, and if the captain actually seemed wistful, he would be dragged under the surface again.

No matter how agreeable his mood was, there was no telling what he would be like when it passed.

A ring-laden hand hit the door before he could open it, keeping it closed by force. Louis eyes dragged slowly up it, from the knuckles to the wrist, from the wrist to the strong forearm, and from there to the way the light fabric stretched over his bicep. He didn’t meet his eyes.

“Going already, are we?” It was impossible to tell whether he was smiling. A second arm joined its friend, caging Louis between the pirate and the oak door. “No ‘thank you’ for letting you use my bed?”

They stood face to face, chest to chest, and Louis felt his breath stir his hair. His heart started to pound blood into his thrumming veins, his eyes stubbornly focused on the wing of one of the birds. That didn’t seem to satisfy Crimsonblade who placed a startlingly cool hand on the other side of his neck and tilted his chin higher.

In a brief moment, he sensed the irony. This was the man who had accused him for keeping his chin too high.

The new angle brought his eyes to rest on the captain’s cheek where an edge on a book or some other angular thing had left a funny-looking crease in the tan flesh. The prince was officially disgusted with himself for the surge of affection the vision caused. And when he finally raised his face, the pirate brought his down.

Their mouths slanted across each other, one more tentative than the other as only one of them minded that this was the height of impropriety, and even he was close to throwing caution to the wind if only to make sure the taller man wouldn’t stop doing what he was doing with his lips.

Their hands sought purchase from behind the neck, gripping the hair or the shoulders, and drawing the other nearer; gliding to change their hold of the other person and urging them with not so gentle gestures. At one point, the captain’s hands were cupping his face, long fingers fit for a pianist stroking the flushed skin.

As if the universe was trying to prove a point, Louis again failed to notice Crimsonblade was pulling him further into the room until the captain begun to bend him back towards the bed, moving his body over his as the prince tugged the curls at the nape of his neck.

He knew girls were very early taught by their mothers and the rest of the society that it was their responsibility not to tempt men, that men can’t restrain themselves and turn weak in front of an attractive woman. Louis felt like he should have been warned about similar thing.

He felt scared under him, and had never felt something akin to it. It was not fear of death, or fear for someone else’s demise, but simply full on fear of being showed he was right about what kind of a man Crimsonblade was; of waking up in the morning with the other side of the bed stone cold and of spending another month ignoring one another.

“What is it?” the captain asked.

He had stopped kissing once the smaller man had become unresponsive, only to find him staring at nothing with a forlorn expression. The prince turned to look at him, quickly protesting.

“Just…lost in my thoughts. Sorry.”

Louis clumsily drew him back onto him, fingers knotted in his shirt.

It felt nice to be touched. There were about a dozen people who were allowed to touch him back at court and half of them were purely for professional purposes. His mind graved for the intimate touch even more than his body did; had missed it without knowing what it was he had been missing.

The captain continued to run his hands down the smaller man’s body, perhaps not in wonder but definitely appreciating what he felt and saw. His left hand, having started its way down from Louis’ right collarbone, stopped just short of the hem of the prince’s shirt—he was very aware of its thinness—and he raised his hooded eyes to him.

It was a question Louis wasn’t ready to answer yet.

He wondered if this was how women felt – laid open and vulnerable under someone physically stronger, trusting them to not take advantage of that superior power. In a fit of courage, he tugged the hem of the captain’s shirt to say what he could not put to words.

_You first._

Surprisingly, the captain complied without a fuss, reaching up to the ties on his shirt’s neckline and undid the already loose knots without breaking their eye contact. He pushed himself up, straddling Louis while taking pulling the shirt over his head. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry folding the shirt.

Not that Louis was rushing him.

He spent the time mapping the ink scattered on the pirate’s body; the swallows for services at the sea, the anchor for crossing the Atlantic, the fully rigged ship for the journey around Cape Horn. He trailed a finger down the side of his throat, heady from the trusting air the pirate was exuding, and evaluating the delicate shape of it now that it wasn’t covered from view by his hair. A woman would have accented such an artful neck with a showy necklace, its stem laid between the dents of the collarbones.

Louis licked his lips. His mouth had dried up.

The shirt was dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, its owner returning back to his earlier position on top of the smaller man who felt the cording of muscle and bare skin hot against him.

“You,” Crimsonblade murmured against his neck, “are hard to stay away from.”

Louis’ breath hitched.

 _What if I am not able to love her,_ he had asked from his mother on one particular weak moment he still wasn’t proud of. It had been after he had witnessed the cook’s sons trying to sneak into the servants’ quarters to spy on the scullery maids. _Am I not able to feel attraction?_

 _When the time is right, you will._ The Queen had then kissed his forehead. _It will be like magic_.

_Magic?_

Despite his disbelieving tone her mother had just smiled secretively and nodded in confirmation, _“Magic, Lou bear. Magic,”_ before retreating from his bedchamber.

He was quite ready to believe the heavy feeling, considering how quickly it had risen, was some kind of sorcery, a special kind of spell that made him follow an instinct he didn’t know he had. There was no study book for this.

His arm reached on its own accord to the planes of his back, trying to grip the skin over the shoulder blade in growing urgency. He felt the captain gasp in relief against his skin as if he had been sure he wold be pushed away and denied, yet out loud he breathed, “You can ask me to stop if you so wish to. But I know you won’t.”

His right hand brushed his knee, skimming up his thigh and coming closer, closer and closer to disappearing under his shirt, the tips of his fingers just about to touch the prince’s skin that was already buzzing for his every nerve ending was on fire. He arched his back, welcoming the touch and—

_Knock. Knock-knock._

 

                                                                                                                       

  
  
Harry was fuming. “What,” he snapped at Zayn.

His friend was bold enough to look exceptionally pleased with himself like he had done a huge favour for the society. “I saved you from a fatal mistake.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. _Mistake?_ He had felt physical desire towards men before but nothing as overpowering as this. Moreover, at some point, as he had realized, the boy had started asking for his attention deliberately. It had angered him at first but...

He just kept running into him over and over again, and sometimes realized to his horror that it was he who had moved closer, searched him out unconsciously. Harry slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers, his index finger tracing the edges of the round object hidden there as though it was something he treasured or feared. Possibly both. Especially if his suspicion was proved right.

“…if you think you can manage that,” Zayn finished. “Just a thought.”

Harry dragged his eyes slowly to meet his. “Er.”

“You didn’t hear a single thing I said to you, did you?”

Harry shrugged, unapologetic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny figure slip out of the doors of his cabin. Louis was wearing his quilt, drawing its ends together self-consciously. He wished to give him a bigger one, and hated how he couldn’t recognize whether he wanted it to shield him from the looks or from the cold. The first mate snapped his fingers in front of his nose.

“Harry, he’s just a boy,” Zayn said. “Don’t you understand?”

Harry looked at him, uncomprehending. Of course he knew Tommo was a boy. What did Zayn mean with that…and then he realized. “Oh, you mean—”

“The life at sea makes us forget how restrained the life is back at shore. He has never been with a woman, possibly he is only just now figuring out he prefers men. And then you come into the picture, practically shoving him into our world where everyone has too many regrets and notches on their bedposts.”

“I’m not forcing him into that!” He denied hearing the immature, indignant tone his voice had taken.

“He’s only looking for our acceptance. He could do anything for you if you continue giving him the impression this is the only way he gets to have your attention.” When Harry looked at him mistrustfully, he hissed: “He’s reacting to the only welcomed romantic attention the poor thing has ever received in the only way he knows, because that's the example you set!”

Harry stood there, frozen. He wouldn’t force himself on Tommo, or make the boy do something he would regret. Right?

Is _that my responsibility? Would_ I _regret it?_

Instinctively he looked back at the boy. Harry overheard him complain about not keeping up with Liam who the smaller man had taken a liking to. “I have short legs,” he heard him say, and though his voice was lamenting and self-depreciating, the captain could almost feel the pride he had to fight down to say every single word.

 Zayn looked between him and the object of his fixation, and snorted. “Sometimes I wonder if this was the real you and the old you was an act.”

The captain tore his eyes away from Tommo. He thought his heart had stopped its ability to pump self-loathing through his veins but there it was, running potent and spreading to every part of his body. “Oh, I know.”

“Are you sure you’re not doing this just to show the monarchs you can corrupt even their golden boy?”

Harry’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. “That does sound like me…”

“No, it doesn’t.” When Harry faced his only close friend he had, he found him smiling softly. “You raid ships, you steal from people, but humans have never been the medium you use to take vengeance.”

Harry’s heart, whether it was there or not, felt a lot lighter after that.

 That day it was unprecedentedly hard to write anything in the logbook. The words, “sixteen knots,” ended in a gradually spreading blot of ink under the tip of his quill. Blue eyes, curvy body and high cheekbones flooded his thoughts so it was impossible to mark-up the knots, the weather and other happenings amongst the crew.

After all the years he had been at sea, he had never really felt at home, never felt like he belonged somewhere, and now he found himself charmed by a boy who was snappy, arrogant, hot-tempered and overall impossible to please. And in the possession of the most dishonest eyes he had ever seen.

It was like he could read everything in them: his shy interest; the childlike wonder of someone who was curious to learn new things about the world. And then the crestfallen expression when after Harry had closed off. Again.

Yet he didn’t feel guilty as there was no proof this was more than just innocent puppy love.

When he had been just a small boy, he had found his solace in music. That is until his foster father had found out it wasn’t his little Alice who played the piano ‘so delightfully’. He could imagine it now while his hands rested on the surface of the desk; his mind imagined the keys to where there were maps and parchments. Music began to fill his ears with its softness and then built to a crescendo, one that would wring every ounce of energy, sweat and concentration out of him, leaving him too exhausted to feel the fear of desiring something that was wrong.

His father had insisted Harry stop it—“Only a woman plays the piano, and only for the joy of the men. A man never, I repeat, never lays his hands on something a woman can do.”

He had been a very practical person, and thus not understanding of the emotion music could bring to a boy like Harry—a lonely child who was different than others in so many ways it drove him away from the company of his peers much to his father’s dislike.

Angrily, Harry kicked his chair further away from the desk and reached for the silk dressing gown hanging from its back, pushing his arm into the cool, smooth sleeves. He walked to his bed, promptly collapsing on it back first, searching for a trace of a scent he didn’t find and wondering what would have happened should the situation have been different.

Niall didn’t seem to feel the smallest shred of unease in his presence, much unlike Liam’s doting respect—maybe even fear when he got into one of his moods. And indeed, he never laughed; smiled without knowledge of doing so sometimes and those times had happened more often nowadays when in the company of the small brunet. He had taught himself to swallow his first responses and to choose the second, which had started to come more and more naturally to him after all the years of suppressing the real him.

Sometimes he confused himself; and it was yet harder when people never called him ‘Harry’.

But that was until him.

When he had started to think he didn’t recognize himself any longer, he needn’t have, for a certain blue-eyed boy had done it for him. He was the key to get Harry Styles back.

The words he had heard after talking to Zayn rang repeatedly in his mind. _But you’re not worth of it._

_You never will._

Lazily, he reached for the pocket of his breeches and revealed a round object. He clicked the silver jewellery open with a swift and expert movement of his thumb and smirked as he laid eyes on what he had concluded since the boy had boarded his ship. He felt himself grin from ear to ear.

 _Revenge_ is _sweet._


	7. Of Birthdays and Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for some violence

The ceiling full of arches plated with gold spread overheard in its full glory. On his both sides, were the white walls, half of their height covered in dark wooden panels and the deer heads over them, set onto the juts between the windows with intricate panelling. The Great Hall bathed in the welcoming glow of the candles. Despite that, Louis did not feel very warm.

Perhaps because of that, he was startled when a sound broke the deadly silence and desolation of the room. The announcer’s voice echoed in the vast space; somehow still muted, as though it was coming from behind a wall. “His Royal Highness, Prince Sigmund Francis of Austria.”

Louis swirled to face the entrance of the hall, and there, striding in through the great oak doors, was a bearded man who was followed by a familiar woman.

“Lottie,” Louis cried. Yet it was no louder than a whisper.

“Your sister has been promised to Austria,” said his father’s voice from behind him. Louis looked at him, wondering when he had come in. He had only heard the rustling of his sister’s gown and their shoes clopping against the polished tile.

The prince turned his gaze back to where the man twice as old as Charlotte had her arm looped through his. His sister looked too innocent, so naively enamoured by the man’s ostentatious cape and far too glad to be a piece in his father’s game of political and financially profitable matchmaking. His family was like a plot from the English theatre scene, he thought bitterly.

At that moment, a timid hand touched his forearm, the prince meeting the brown and round eyes of Ms Calder, so alike the late Lady Calder’s, they said. But Louis couldn’t offer her anything more than the separate life common for royal couples; to force her to seek gratification and companionship from the people living at court.

“Your duty as the ruler is to marry someone of royal blood,” his father interposed again. “I have enough of daughters to marry them to every royal family in Europe, but given the political situation, you must marry an Englishwoman of our bloodline. The public doesn’t want a foreign queen in times of crisis. They need security, they need to rest assured that their king will have an heir.”

Louis’ brows furrowed. The prince had clued only to one word. “Pardon? What crisis, papa?”

“Pirates!” his father cried. “That’s what I am talking about. The lowlife, the—“

Louis felt something tug in him and he wondered what it was about. His father sunk his hands into the riot of lace on Louis’ collar—even that felt uncommon, as if he had worn just a dress shirt for quite some time—and levelled him a serious look. Louis avoided meeting his eyes, zoning in on a ruby on his father’s crown.

“You never know when they are going to strike. As your father, I am concerned for your safety. I thereby hope you will take one of my men”—he gestured at a man in the shadows—“who has the highest recommendations, of course. Remorseless, seasoned…”

A firm hand replaced his father’s on his shoulder, and when he looked up, he was met with green eyes. The man raised a finger to his lush, pink lips. _Shush_.

“Help,” he whispered, barely moving his mouth. “Get me out of here.”

He looked back at the left side of the hall where there were more people now; Charlotte distinguishable beside the Austrian, but currently accompanied by the rest of his sisters and every one of them flanked by old men with many baubles that screamed of ‘arranged marriage’ to him. The youngest were turning only twelve in a few months, still learning to crochet with their handmaidens.

But what hit him the strongest was the identical expressions of fear and disgust on their faces as they beheld their prince. Or the person behind him.

The man in question leaned closer and his lips pressed into his hair. Louis couldn’t find it in himself to ask the man to step back. No sooner had he heard the name “Crimsonblade” whispered by the persons in the hall than he felt a cold blade sink into his back and his mouth fill with warm blood.

_“No!”_

Out of dreams of pirates and literal back-stabbing, Louis woke with a start. He shot up in his hammock, almost falling to the floor as he struggled to stay upright on the wieldy material that shifted under him according to how much weight he put on it. His shout echoed in the room, drowned out by some soft snores. Maybe it was his ears that kept ringing.

He threw away the quilt draped over him and tried to regulate his heartrate and breathing, both currently fighting for the title of the least calm function. He felt a drop of cold sweat travel down from his neck. The cool air helped to sober him a little.

It took a while for him to fight the bout of nausea and confusion about his whereabouts, but when he did, he shakily clambered down and exited the room, unable to throw a few involuntary looks around the corners. Of course the odds were against him, but he couldn’t let himself think of the worst possibility; of the captain having gained possession of the locket.

One could say he was in denial, but he had no proof of opposite: Crimsonblade hadn’t treated him differently during the last few days since he found the pocket of his canvas pants empty.

At least not in the negative way he had expected and half dreaded.

Again, he flushed with mortification when thinking about him. He didn’t know what had come over him; to cause him to throw all caution into air like that and to do everything with such wild and total abandon. His blood had hummed and his nerves had pulsed like they were all one big heartbeat.

He shivered under his short jacket. It was still cold and his sweaty shirt did nothing to help the situation. On the deck, he saw a pacing, sinewy figure where he was headed, their footsteps silent as the man moved as one with the rocking of the boat.

“It should be warmer in a fortnight,” said Zayn when Louis fell into step beside him.

The prince watched him lick his finger and raise it to the air, doing his magic by recognizing whichever current or breeze and as good as calculating their position in the sea from them. Despite having spent several hours alone with him, the pirate’s looks still threw him off: mainly the straight slope of his nose paired with the sharp planes of his cheek that his sweeping lashes kissed every time he blinked.

“How do you know?”

“The wind’s blowing from the south-west,” he said like it answered the question. “Ready to train? That should warm us up in no time.”

He was of course referring to Louis’ newest occupation as his student. He had started to be given more responsibility, including learning the needed combat skills in order to defend their ship when needed. The prince also had a sneaking suspicion that a certain tattooed prince-wrecker was behind it—and he considered it nothing but suspicious.

Not that he lacked any skill with sword, but the point was that he lacked the ruthlessness. As the first mate had earlier taught him, pirates didn’t fight by any of the rules or structured forms that had been drilled into his head since childhood. They pulled every low blow and dirty trick in the book and a few that they had probably invented themselves.

Nodding in consent, Louis barely caught the sword the raven haired man tossed him. The two men started their routine with familiarity in the pale yellow illumination of the sunrise. Shoes shuffling against the planking, they countered each other’s blows, parried and listened to the clinking of the striking metals.

Zayn was keeping up a running commentary, gradually getting more breathless to Louis’ deep satisfaction. “Good balance! Not too high, not too low,” he panted and tried to find a weakness in the way the prince carried his sword. “Your middle is protected well. How about we turn a 180?”

The smaller man complied and earned himself a painful hit to his ribs with the slope of the first mate’s weapon. “Ow! What did you do that for?”

“To prove a point. Never expect your opponent to fight fair.”

And then they continued.

Zayn picked from where he had left and started to egg the prince on in order to make him abandon the by-the-book duelling. So far, angering him had only made him sloppier, threatening had had no results at all and crowding his personal space had ended in one very sore nipple after Louis had tweaked it in annoyance. But Zayn wasn’t mad, no. He had only seen it as encouraging progress.

At the moment, he was attempting to find what could possibly motivate him midst the clatter of the colliding swords.

“What do you care for?” _Clank_. “What would you fight for?” _Clink_. “Is it friends? A love interest? Home?” _Clack_. “Freedom?”

The next blow was countered with a vicious swipe of Louis’ sword. “I would love to be,” he snarled, brushing his hair out of the way. It was beginning to curl around his ears and neck, but still shorter than what the latest trend from Paris had established.

Setting his sword down, Zayn was grinning. “See? It’s not that hard. You eat like us. Why should abandoning rules be this hard?”

Louis lowered his right arm to his side as well and puffed, “It’s easy to abandon proper dinner etiquette when you are hungry.”

His muscles hadn’t been this sore for a while. At least at the court, his sword lessons had been positioned between the tutorials, giving his legs and arms some well-deserved relief. Besides a small tremor in his hands, Zayn didn’t outwardly give any signs of fatigue.

“Do we—?“ Louis started, but somewhere between do and we he heard a third party approaching them from behind. He just managed to raise his sword up before the stranger hit it with a force that sent the vibration of the collision all the way to his shoulder. Where Zayn used his speed for his advantage, this man’s blows were more straightforward and stronger.

“Last lesson of the day,” said a smug voice of the first mate behind his back. “Never lower your weapon before the coast is clear. Morning, love.”

Liam grinned and sheathed his sword. “Good morning, Zee. Are you done for the day? Better not work too hard on a day like this.”

Louis felt like he was not told everything. “’Like this?’”

Liam hummed happily. “You’ll see. After this day, no masquerade—or whatever it is you nobles have at court—will hold a candle to what you experienced here.”

“No.” His voice was sure. He felt like he needed to prove something to them. “I am sure they won’t. Because you know what? When I left London I never looked back at the diminishing shoreline. Not even once.”

“That’s a remarkable trait,” said Zayn.

“What is?”

“Your curiosity.” It seemed like he had wanted to say something more. Instead, he slung an arm around his shoulders and another around Liam’s and, with the knowledge of a helmsman, steered them skilfully towards the captain’s cabin. “Better wake Cap. For preparations.”

Louis legs gained a ton in weight as they neared the doors. Perhaps it was the shame and unwillingness that weighed them down. Moreover, being this close to Zayn made it possible to smell his tangy scent, not smoke-like but similar and more sinister. Louis couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

Liam slipped behind the door first, leaving the two of them behind. Zayn was silent for a beat before saying, “Y’know, the captain’s a good friend of mine.”

“If you say that just to release me from some severe state of envy, I have got some news for you,” Louis told him. “I have no problems with your friendship.”

“Liam does,” said Zayn. So quietly Louis couldn’t be sure he had spoken at all. He had always thought there was some tension caused by jealousy in their relationship but he had never thought it would be because of a person on this very ship. Was Crimsonblade _Harold?_ he thought, recalling the conversation he had overheard, mind flashing back to a miserable Liam who had gratefully accepted a stranger’s consolation.

“I don’t think he is jealous of it, merely just wishing it would be that easy for you two to talk.”

“What do you mean?” Zayn asked sharply.

Louis raised his hands in front of him in defence. “Just what I read between the lines.” His eyes fell on an object. “Is that a ship?”

Zayn turned swiftly around and squinted at it, snatching a telescope that had been hanging from his belt. He frowned. “Something’s off.”

The vessel was dead on the water with no wind to push it forward and they seemed to gain on her remarkably fast. The sails were old and weather-beaten. The rest of the crew on the deck, as well as on the gundeck, judging from the heads peeking out from the holes on the hull when Louis looked downwards to the breakers, felt the spreading eerie feeling the ship brought.

A hush fell upon the crew, and when they finally sailed past her, they saw no signs of life. Several men hung their heads lower or crossed their hands in prayer. The ship that ghosted forward was undoubtedly bringing thoughts about supernatural powers to the minds of the crew.

Louis’s brows furrowed. Considering the state of the ramshackle, moss and sea creature-covered body of the ship, it was a miracle it floated.

Louis didn’t dare to imagine what demise the crew had faced. Swept overboard by a rough tide, a mutiny amongst the crew, abducted or forced to board another ship, murdered by the prisoners they had kept in their dungeons…

Zayn shifted uneasily beside him. “A ghost ship. Haven’t seen one since _The Flying Dutchman._ This is not a good sign.”

For a change, Louis agreed full-heartedly. Even the most sceptical would readily believe in bad omens when they promised imminent death. But to whom was it targeted? All of them?

 

                                                                                                                    

  
  
The days were dark, making it impossible to tell time. When Louis woke up in the mornings, disorientated by the lack of light in the room, he still didn’t expect it to be equally dark on the deck. So it was more than just slight shock that met the news of the date. Twelfth of the first month of a new year.

He had been nineteen for almost three weeks. Yet, it definitely wasn’t his birthday the crew was celebrating that day.

Zayn—who had failed to mention it non-cryptically—was turning twenty-three and was receiving a feast worth all his summers: pork rinds, meat on a sticks, oysters and mussels, creamed herring and fresh citrus, and then the more common dried fruit and peas, oatmeal, olives and capers were set on the large wooden table of the messdeck by Niall.

Louis, who hadn’t seen this much food since he left London, reached for the meat and piled it on his plate, his hands soon covered in the grease. He licked him thumb, simultaneously spreading the oil on his chapped lips. He was about to walk past the citrus until a hand planted an orange fruit firmly on his plate.

He sighed and turned to face Crimsonblade. “That is overripe.”

He did not expect for the pirate to replace the fruit with his half peeled orange, but he did, and Louis was too stunned to be thankful. He simply watched the captain’s hands start peeling the soft, bruised fruit, fingers wet with its juice. And he specifically did not watch him put a slice in his mouth, lips lingering on his finger and sucking on it.

Louis licked his own animal grease covered lips in empathy. And was disappointed when the captain spun on his heel and walked away. Ludicrously, Louis thought he would have preferred shouting—at least then he would have had some insight as to what was going on under those curls.

If the others noticed the exchange, they did not care. Looking around them, he saw Niall in the centre of attention: eating trice more, trice faster and trice louder than the others, and when he didn’t eat, he laughed—like someone who hadn’t seen as much bad in the world as the prince knew he had seen. Liam and Zayn, on the other hand, were uncharacteristically far from each other and Louis wondered if they had fought again. On the other side of the table, Al and Ed were talking about the nuisance of all sailors: scurvy.

“When I was aboard _Karlskrona_ , His Majesty’s flagship, we lost 86 of our crew of 160. All mainly to scurvy. It’s not that the disease is lethal but the men eventually die of infections. Or of blood loss.”

Of course, Sir Edward Hawkins had advocated drinking the juice of citrus as a means of preventing the disease half a century ago. The word had reached the court that some natives in the West Indies made tea by boiling needles of the Eastern White Cedar. Now, _that_ was way better than eating overdone fruits, in Louis' mind.

Speaking of beverages, Niall was introducing a new drink to the crew. It looked like coffee but was thicker, clouded and frothy. Louis, who of course had identified it as hot cocoa, volunteered to taste it first. He enjoyed seeing the reverent looks this act got.

He raised the wooden cup to his lips and let the cold bitter brew of fermented, roasted and ground cacao seeds touch his tongue. But only after he swallowed, did he realize his mistake.

“God in heaven,” he sputtered. His lips and tongue felt like they were on fire. “What was that?”

“It’s from a receipt I found at Victoire,” answered Niall, having looked at Louis’ every reaction closely. “I thought you would be the wiser of us, to be honest.”

Louis looked back down at the murky substance. “They call it _chocolatl_ in Spain. It is made from the same cocoa beans as coffee, I believe. But this doesn’t taste like it. Stronger,” he mused and smacked his lips to get rid of the stinging.

Niall took the glass from him and tasted. “It has chili in it,” he said and licked the foam from his lips. “A bold, interestin’ choice. Requires an acquired taste. Always knew Britons were smarter than the frogs.”

“That is barbaric,” Louis commented seriously. “A ship full of thieves and no one manages to steal the real treasure. Tea leaves, mate. _Tea leaves_.”

Ed perked up. “Leaves?”

“Not for narcotic purposes,” he said, facing the disappointed ginger, “although their taste is pretty phenomenal.”

That earned a laugh out of the men. Even Zayn grinned, although slightly weary-looking, and put some powder he had pinched between his thumb and forefinger into his glass. Louis wondered what he was dissolving for he looked secretive, given the rapid but cautious looks he threw at Liam’s direction.

The captain appeared on the first mate’s side as if invited and proceeded to hiss something at his ear. Liam looked towards them and then away as though a sunray had blinded him, blinking. Louis was just observing them just for the sake of watching Crimsonblade. Al called him out on his behaviour.

“Do you like our captain?” he asked suddenly. The accusing tone was enough to reveal that Al did not mean to insinuate any attachment between two friends or acquaintances, but meant it in a more pressing context.

“What? No! No, no.” The prince fought to collect himself, but he wasn’t too successful. His companion’s keen eye had caught his flustered expression. “Of course I don’t. That would be improper.”

“Indeed,” Al said. His expression didn’t waver but Louis felt something change in the air around them. “It’s not my business but…”

“You can say it. Whatever it is,” Louis prompted, resigned.

“I just want you to be careful,” Al started and rushed his next words. “I’m not saying he’s someone you shouldn’t care for but he does seem like someone who will hurt you more than his requited love is worth. He’s a man who can be trusted with secrets but definitely a man who you shouldn’t rely on when it comes to the matters of the heart.”

Louis was wringing his hands together quite forcefully. Did the captain really seem so bad that even Al – a person who had joined their ranks later than him – felt the need to warn him about Crimsonblade? And yet it was good to talk about him with someone who hadn’t known him for years.

“The truth is, Al, that I’m not sure if I have feelings towards him. He’s so – _complicated_. Like a sea I can’t navigate in, its winds ever changing as if it’s suffering from chronic storms. And the next day he could be placid as a pond. I don’t know what has made him like that. What could change a person so drastically?”

“Bad childhood, I guess.”

“Well, that,” Louis amended. The captain had had a family in the countryside before he ran away, and he had talked about being poor like he had witnessed it personally, regardless. Yet he didn’t return home. “I just don’t understand him,” he sighed. “But there’s more to a person than just the pretty outer shell and I have never considered myself the type to get attracted by superficial things. But he _is_ awfully handsome.” His own voice sounded horribly feeble even to him.

“I say he’s hiding something big. Something that makes him more bitter the longer he tries to keep it bottled up inside him.” He gave him a fatherly pat on the back and smiled encouragingly. “Just a friendly warning.”

Louis scratched his arm, bothered. It could have also been the fleas he suspected were shacking up somewhere in his hammock. The older man caught his grimace and pointed at his forearm with his chin.

“You should get that checked. The arm, I mean. It could get infected.”

Louis, touched by the fatherly concern of this man he had barely interacted with, decided to humour him by glancing towards their doctor. For a man his size, Al managed to move rather gracefully along the decks, but same could not be said of Sir Wootton, often seen folded in half over the starboard rail, letting out loud retching noises. When he did not look chronically green in the face, Louis didn’t like the look in his face as he watched the men a bit too sharply to pass off as just concern for their wellbeing.

“No, thank you. I shall take my chances,” said Louis.

Al looked a bit disappointed, but left it at that. Niall squeezed into the space between them. “Ready for some celebration?”

Louis looked between the food and the blond. “Is this not feasting?”

Niall’s eyes looked very blue even in the low light. “Ya ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.”

Just then a man ran down the ladder leading to the orlop deck. Louis could feel the excitement pick up.

“All right,” said the man and clapped his hands together once. He grinned widely, some hay stuck in his hair and coal smudges in his hands. “All in favour to have some fun say aye!”

“Aye!”

The cause for the mess stood on the foredeck. A few crewmembers had struck a piece of white sheet, on which was drawn a crude sketch of a stick like silhouette with a crown, to a haystack. Judging by the elation of the company, this was an old tradition.

A fourth person covered in smudges came to the deck, arms full of flintlock pistols. The men took their own and started to load them.

What initially sounded like an easy bit of fun, soon turned into an obvious challenge as no one followed any rules about how far one should fire ones pistol, causing a few, although not severe, scuffles. Nevertheless, the men were a good shot; most of them never missed when firing twenty feet away. There was however, some controversy about the neatness of the execution as half of the men were remarkably drunk.

Crimsonblade shot and hit in three times in the head area, all lethal.

“Your turn.” He handed it over to Louis who, without scruple, grabbed the butt of the pistol and yanked it out of the captain’s arms, biting his smirk down as he saw his look of surprise. Holding the surprisingly heavy weapon in his hands, he slid his thumb along the sleek cool surface. “Just watch out so it won’t go off half-cocked,” Crimsonblade warned. “The firing is a bit hard and the mechanism—“

He never got to finish the sentence. Louis expertly poured the gunpowder into the barrel and inserted the lead musket ball wrapped in fabric after it. He jammed them all the way down the barrel with the ramrod, after which he pulled the hammer back and aimed the gun a bit lower than average. He pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked back into his palm. Through the cloud of white smoke it had created, he saw the hole that had appeared on the crotch of the stick-like silhouette. When he handed the flintlock back, smiling smugly, he got a confused impression of many impressed and surprised faces before engulfed by a clingy blond cook, and found himself in the receiving end of many hair ruffles, pats in the back, and several offers for tankards.

The celebration continued long after it got dark. There were no stars that night and the crew had lit lanterns along the rail so it looked like a necklace of fireflies. Louis, prodded by his drunk mind, tried to walk along it.

“Man overboard,” he giggled as his foot slipped again. This time he could not recover his balance by grabbing the rigging, but his plummet of death never came. Instead, his arm nearly got ripped out of its socket as someone yanked him violently towards the maindeck.

When he came chest to chest with his saviour, Louis pondered if he would kiss him or shout at him, for those were the only responses he had gotten out of him thus far, apparently.

“Permission to come aboard, captain?”

“Granted,” the pirate growled. He detached himself from the smaller man and started to tug him below decks.

As they walked between the cannons, Louis watched how his coat stressed the delicious shoulder to waist ratio. Without his permission, or the captain’s for that matter, his hand sneaked around the middle and he crowded himself against the back, nose pressed into the curls between the shoulder blades. His eyes fluttered shut as he breathed the sea air and soap scent of the hair.

Crimsonblade stumbled. His arms came to cover Louis’ hands but he didn’t make a move to detach them. Louis started to hum a tune under his breath. A few people stared as the peculiar four-legged pair shuffled past them, some scratching their heads and turning to their friends as if asking _, Did you see that, too?_

“You know I don’t know a single thing about you. Quite terrible wooing on your part, I might say. I mean,” he murmured to the fabric, “kissing will do but not _talking_.”

The answer took so long to come that Louis starter to doubt the captain had heard him. That was why he almost started when he felt his voice vibrating under his cheek. “I like to keep my cards close.”

“No, you don’t. You hide the cards, lit them on fire, and throw the ashes to the sea – just for paranoid precaution.”

“At least I don’t eat them.”

There was humour in his voice, and although it was bleak, it was a very welcome surprise. Louis just stood still and blinked for a beat before he recovered. “Oh, please don’t. They have horrible nutritive value. I definitely wouldn’t recommend them as a means of evading scurvy.”

The muscles under his hands jumped as though a laugh had started there, but was physically forced to stay down. Still, he could feel the captain’s smile in the air: a small, private smile directed to the walls of the ship. But Louis knew.

He _knew_.

It was disappointing, as well, because he was sure the smile must have been lovely. He could picture how it had changed his features, smoothed the crease between his eyebrows and softened the aggressive angle of his brows. And his lips. They had been stretched wider so the dip of his Cupid’s bow had become gentler and his dimples—one of the first things he had noticed about him—had popped.

His lips would have tasted like citrus.

With that thought in mind, he untangled his arms and let go. When the captain turned curiously around, he somehow got in the circle of his arms and got up on his toes, leaning in for a kiss. It was soundly rejected.

“I thought…“ A pressure was building on Louis’ chest. “I though you would want that. But thinking clearly now, I don’t even know what we are.” He saw the pirate avoid meeting his eyes. He went on, “Against all my previous believes, I have actually started to care for what you think of me. And I am not sure if it is because I have come to like you, as foolish as it sounds because”—Crimsonblade looked positively unnerved—“because…”

He couldn’t continue. Instead, he just stood there, waiting for the pirate to finally say what his thoughts about them were in words rather than action—an action that could be easily misunderstood as just lust. _You should not worry about that, Louis, for I have stayed up many nights wondering what your feelings for me were, possibly,_ or even: _Louis, you have all but bewitched all of me and I cannot deny the connection between us anymore._

 _Stupid, stupid,_ his mind berated.

“Tom,” Crimsonblade said. His voice was inviting enough for him to not shy away from. Although there was some tension in his posture, Louis practically fell toward him, the rum just a buzz somewhere in the back of his mind. The captain reached for the prince and his hands, still slightly sticky from the fruit juice, brushed across his coat covered back. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

He bent to kiss him. His lips were less unyielding; softer than what they had ever been. The sweet but bitter taste of the orange was still lingering on the skin around his mouth and Louis sucked on his lower lip greedily in his intoxicated state. But with the captain’s hands wound in the fabric of his jacket, he couldn’t feel the hammering of the smaller man’s pulse.

Louis broke off the kiss, but he didn’t draw away from the pirate. “I have never been scared of you.”

Crimsonblade laughed. The sound was short and cold. His lips brushed his ear as he said under his breath, “You will come to regret that. _Tua maxima culpa_.”

That was precisely the moment Al stepped around the corner and almost collided with them. Amidst his apology and swift exit, he managed to throw a very disappointed glance over the curly haired man’s shoulder, battling toe to toe with the prince’s old parlour maid with its intensity.

Sick with apprehension, Louis scanned the captain’s face and felt relieved when his annoyance at being caught didn’t pass beyond the surface of his features. He still hadn’t removed his fingers that were knotted in his clothes. Louis found it equally hard to move. At least he isn’t embarrassed to be seen with me. Maybe we are truly getting somewhere at last.

But after some time, Crimsonblade had to support his steadily sleepier crewmember.

He also looked deeply satisfied about something and it didn’t dawn to him until he said, “We are even now, princess. Lifeline for a lifeline,” and even then he had to spend a few seconds of wondering because there definitely had been a word that shouldn’t have belonged there…

“Did you call me ‘princess?”

“No,” the pirate stated quickly, simply. “It must have been some aftereffect of rum. It is known to cause quite bizarre hallucinations for the beginners and the weak-minded.”

“Oh. I am the weak-minded, am I correct?” Louis’ eyelids started to get heavier. He didn’t have enough energy to be fresh with him. “What happens to us now?”

“Sorry?” Judging from Crimsonblade’s expression he had heard him just fine, but was caught off guard by it.

“Do I invite you to my bed,” he suggested, mind flashing back to the piece of fabric hung from the ceiling beams, “or rather, to my humble chateau?”

The pirate’s grip on him tightened as he dragged him to his side, something cold pressing to the skin of Louis’ upper arm. It was a ring; one that would be painted to the backs of his eyelids for a long time, teasing him with its familiarity. A large red stone—the value of which was perhaps only about ten times the price of the ship they sailed on, but unmeasurable for what it stood for—was embedded in the thin golden band that weaved like an ivy around Crimsonblade’s finger. The only thing going through his mind was, _I have seen you before at court._

“Just go to sleep, Louis.” And then he proceeded to lead him past the galley to the sleeping quarters.

Later, the whole exchange would be more or less wiped out of his memory. But still, the warm feeling currently swelling in him stomach stayed like a flare of hope. And it refused to wear off.

 

                                                                                                                          

  
  
The aftereffects of rum certainly were no picnic.

He was on night duty—or rather, very early morning—and his head bounded as one with every step he took. It was just him and Zayn, who was behind the wheel, whereas Louis’ only responsibility was to kill all rats he came across. A dead rat was worth four shillings, and meant lessened possibility of water or food supplies being contaminated by their urine. To be frank, Louis would rather not see one, as the rodents were of a very ghastly sort. He tried to make his steps heavier, appear bigger, but the fearless little buggers seemed unfazed even by men like Al.

Still, he would prefer overpowering a plague-carrier any day to yellow water or sawdust-like bread full of worms.

With just the lantern he carried to illuminate his way, every splash—fishes, whales and whatnot—seemed to echo like a shot in the murky predawn, and by the time he glanced at the sea, he was only able to see the gradually softening ripple where the disturber had vanished underwater. No wonder pirates believed in supernatural. It was easy to make up all the more spectacular creatures that made the eerie noises in the wildly running, unoccupied mind.

At least the air wasn’t as stale as in the orlop deck. He inhaled. The gentle wind tasted like brine on his tongue; a bit fishy but it had something fresh and crispy he couldn’t define for the life of him. That and smoke.

_Smoke?_

He scrambled off to the direction of the smell, followed it down the ladder to gundeck where the flickering glow his lantern casted on the hull inhibited him from seeing other flames. Until he did localize it—and cried out.

The left over hay from yesterday was catching fire in the far left corner to where it had been casted aside. The sparks danced on the burning grain as if the hay was spitting them out. Closer to the hull, the flames were tall enough to lick the wood that was obviously damp, hence the grey, foul smelling smoke that curled upwards from its source and moved along the ceiling, carried by the draft.

He dashed to put it out. Stomping on the sparking hay to extinguish it was like capturing air. The glowing embers scattered, the flames only gaining new vigour as soon as his foot lifted, boosted by oxygen.

Some part of his mind, maybe the one accountable to keeping up with the knowledge he never though he needed, suggested him to use water. While some other part of his mind pointed out that it was scarce and far away, his gaze fell on a pail of familiar black wax, which he snatched swiftly and upended the pail, swearing as the congealed sludge refused to move any quicker.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he urged. All too familiar cold sweat was collecting on the nape of his neck.

Then the flames were gone. As quickly as the relief had appeared, it disappeared as he looked towards the door and beheld the person blocking the door. Their grin was pleased and the gleam of their eyes almost mad. _Grimmy_.

“Well, well, well.” If it was possible, the grin even widened when he noted how frantic Louis was. How cornered and guilty he must have seemed. “Look who screwed up already on their first duty.” His tongue clucked to produce a very demeaning _tsk, tsk_. “What must the Cap say…?”

Louis swallowed. He wasn’t really keen to find out.

“Oi, Grimmy!”

More footsteps drew closer and a couple of heads soon peaked out from the hatch on the floor.

“We heard a shout. Is everything all right?” Then their eyes fell on Louis and the still slightly smoking, blackened remains of the hay and his eyes widened like saucers. “ _Oh_. I-I’ll get Payne.”

Louis looked around him but it was for vain. The cabins and decks had only few exits, unlike the secret passages and camouflaged doors of the palaces and manors. And then there was the water. All around them, caging them in. Right at that moment, sailing didn’t sound _too_ freeing.

Towering in front of him, Grimmy looked a bit round-eyed. Even if he, driven by his jealousy for the unjustified attention Louis got from Crimsonblade, was slightly unjust, he wouldn’t really force a punishment upon someone innocent. Still, his practical mind that said he, as the fourth in command, was superior to Louis, and the boatswain was far too emotionally injured to actually correct someone else’s misunderstanding.

The men came back and the ship came to life like a disrupted anthill. Louis was hauled to his feet by the armpits. His feet swept the floor behind them, rendered useless by the unexpected turn of events. He hardly winced as the men chucked him to the deck.

Landing on the hard on the ground, he received an impact to his side that would surely bruise by tomorrow. Rising on all fours, humiliated and scared, he cried, “You don’t understand. I was trying to put it out.”

The men ether ignored him or didn’t hear his voice over their arguing. Through his tear-blurred eyes, he saw their feet move agitatedly to and fro.  
“Damaging the ship is fifteen lashes. Even attempting it,” stated one.

“But what if we hadn’t woken up on time,” remarked another. “We would have all been burnt alive!”

“Cold blooded murder is worth a capital punishment. Or am I wrong?” asked the third with a grin. “It’s been a while since I was interested in such trivial things as the law, after all.”

They pushed him towards the mainmast, heedless of Louis kicking his feet in protest with his newly gained control and motivation. The wood was coarse against his wrists as they tied him up. His chin hit the solid piece of wood when they jostled him around as the prince’s hands were more securely tied with one another by a thick rope.

“Liam,” he pleaded once he saw the kind-eyed man on his peripheral vision. “Please.” And once Liam kneeled, he tried again. “It wasn’t me. You must believe that.”

The brown eyes searched his face, nearly black in the gloomy light. “I have no proof,” he said, and then took pity of the small man—nothing but a boy, really. “I know you wouldn’t do something like that. And I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to set an example. Shirking on punishments equals more offence.” He touched his shoulder. “Though I do hope it wouldn’t have gone like this.”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, pained. It would do him no good to look hopefully towards the captain’s cabin. Instead, he trashed against his bonds.

“It wasn’t me!” he shouted again, not really expecting the gesture to do much good. “Don’t you think this is a bit too convenient? Haven’t you heard about framing?”

It didn’t. They certainly didn’t appreciate his sassing. One even came forward and tried to best his intelligence.

“Yeah,” they said. “But it’s all so obvious it’s made to look staged on purpose so we wouldn’t think it was you.”

“WHAT!?”

At that moment, a man stepped to the deck, brandishing a whip. When it rested beside his foot, dangling from his fist, it matched Liam’s description perfectly: from a handle made from a coil of rope, separated the nine “tails” of dark and thin rope, all nine decorated in three of more knots that had hardened from the years of use and drops of blood.

The cat o’ nine tails.

He hoped he hadn’t known. He regretted ever asking, for the one thing he remembered vividly was that it shred the meat off your bones. Louis struggled against the bonds harder, the rope biting into his skin.

Funnily enough, perhaps partly because of the shock that was starting to get a hold of his thought process, the only thing going through his mind was that he would later have to remove his own blood from the planking.

He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the impact and—

“STOP!”

Louis slumped forward in relief, then tensed again as the captain’s steps sounded on the deck with the air of someone who fully intended to command the attention of the crew.

“Release the boy.”

“But captain,” said one of the most courageous. “How do we know he isn’t French spy?”

Louis cringed. It was a low blow, and one to surely make Crimsonblade consider twice before ordering them to unwind the knots around his wrist. Then again, if he had seen the locket, he would know French and spy were the furthest from the truth. But spying for the British Empire on the other hand…

Then another, prompted by the first brave soul and the obvious lack of response, reminded, “He tried to burn the ship while we slept.”

When the captain slowly, calculatedly strutted into the price’s line of sight, his face was nothing but unreadable. He seemed to look at the men with a cold intensity that quieted down any further interruptions. Louis’ father would have been proud.

“Do you know who it was?” asked Liam. He, too, was now looking at the men as if hoping he would see what the captain was seeing. Perhaps flint, sulphur tipped matches and tinder.

Crimsonblade continued his rounds like a lion prowled in front of its focus of attention. On every slow turn, his eyes flitted over every one of them. They didn’t meet his gaze, as if they thought any one of them could be on the receiving end of the whip, soon, if they as much as blinked wrong. Then, his green eyes stopped at one.

“This one,” he spoke.

Louis could almost see the hope die in the man’s eyes like a physical thing draining from an eroded pail. No one would have a say against the captain—even Liam, for he had already erred, could do nothing but nod sombrely.

Louis was extracted from the mast and replaced by another. The man was notably more silent as the men chained him to the wood, either out of sheer stubbornness or unconcern. Louis tore his gaze away before the first swing of the whip hit its target with a sharp and sickening, wet smacking sound. His back ached as though in phantom pain about an event that never even happened to him.

He massaged his sore wrists, his fingers cold where the circulation had been cut off.

“Thank you,” he said and waited until the captain turned to gauge his level of sincerity. “I was not keen on making further acquaintance with your _daughter_.”

Crimsonblade’s response was a peculiar thing to watch. His lower face contorted like he was trying not to sneeze and his lips pressed close. It was only after he looked away and pursed his lips that Louis realized he was, again, covering a smile, although rather badly this time. That though led him to wonder how dull his life must have been to be that bad at supressing a smile. Had he ever had a reason to laugh? Had he ever _let_ himself to?

He looked back at the man whose back was now littered with zigzagging red lines of varying states of severity. He shuddered—and caught the gaze of Sir Wootton whose beady eyes were targeted at them, rather than his incoming patient. Whole another kind of chill ran through him.

“Will you kill him?” he asked to distract himself.

“What is it with your obsession about harming and killing?”

“ _Because_ ,” Louis huffed, “the first time I ever saw death was when a brigade of pirates murdered cold-bloodedly a whole crew full of fellow Englishmen while I was hidden in a chest.” His jaw was clenched. He barely noticed a tear that made its way down his right cheek. “And that’s enough of death for a lifetime to me. That’s why.”

If that had any effect on Crimsonblade, he didn’t show it. Even though he looked out for even the teeniest twist of a micro expression, there was nothing that clued him in to any of the suitable emotions other than blank, stoic indifference. He suspected he had recognized a sliver a self-loathing, but that couldn’t have been right…

Could it?

“How did you know it was him? Did you see him do it?”

“No. But someone has been leaking information.”

Louis looked back at the man now slumped against the mast. He didn’t look like a spy, but the prince was not sure what to look for. What did they look like anyway? “And he is the spy?” When the pirate didn’t answer immediately, causing Louis to second guess some things he had thought about the captain, Louis suddenly, ludicrously, felt as if a dog he had trusted had bitten the hand that fed him. “Right?”

“This is just to send an ultimatum,” Crimsonblade replied finally. It was somehow less satisfying an excuse than it should have been. Maybe Zayn had been right about his lack of humanity, about how finally he has forgotten what it is like to be a decent human being.

Maybe the man was beyond saving.

Meanwhile Harry, conflicted between wanting to coddle the almost teary prince against him and not knowing how to actually comfort him, was luckily drawn out from his distracting emotions by the arrival of a pigeon. It was on the rail of the helm, looking important, and waited for him to retrieve the small scroll tied to her leg.

All but yearning to think other than his heart and its latest trysts, he folded open the small piece of parchment ungracefully in his haste. It proved to be worth it.

The letters, **4927N233W** , in the centre of the stiff paper where exactly what he had needed and what he had wanted to hear for the past five years.

He felt himself relax as he looked at the first colours of sunrise that had never felt this bright. The plan for avenge was go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuh, 8K *whistles*
> 
> Sorry it took so long. I am unfortunately very awkward at writing any sort of action packed scenes so bear with me and please comment below to boost my confidence. It would be truly appreciated! Kudos will do as well :D
> 
> Here's for hoping the next chapter is here before Feb 15th. All the love. xx -M


	8. The Slave's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for heavy drug use (off script) and implied addiction

The captain was working with a fever never witnessed before.

There was something forbidding about the way no one could distract him from his maps that he seemed to be focused on day and night; something grave about the way he stayed tense and preoccupied in almost fanatic intensity, stabbing the maps with a pair of compasses and other trinkets, and muttering under his breath—counting distances by setting the compass point with vicious intent, then adjusting the radius and twirling the thing across the paper in hypnotic, quick movements.

Currently, he was deep in a conversation with Zayn as both men looked at a map he had folded so that the goal, whatever it was, laid cleanly in the middle. The first mate looked all but half-hearted as he suggested the fastest or safest way to sail there as if he didn’t one hundred per cent agree with what had gone under.

Perhaps because whatever the captain was scheming, didn’t seem to have too good influence on his health, judging from his tangled hair as though he had just rolled out of bed and started reading his maps again—or worse: not slept at all. Louis had wanted to help but everything about him—his curt speeches, the angle of his inveterately downturned moth—told him that it would not have been a welcome interference.

Ergo, upset and fed up by Crimsonblade’s cold and dismissive demeanour, Louis busied himself by watching the land appear on the horizon. Four days ago it had been just fog, but then, just after dawn on that very next morning, a dot had appeared in the middle of all the greyness. Another day had went past. Then another. It had kept getting bigger and, at the moment, a port was where a black, fat stripe between the sky and the sea had been earlier.

One did not sail without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time, and thus, it was like the first good crop after years of late blight when he heard the yells of the seagulls.

He broke out of his reverie when Liam sat beside him on the empty apple crate the prince had snuck from their food storage. Everything was getting void after forty days of no restocking.

They watched as _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ glided past the vessels that laid at anchor at the bay. Countless more littered the deep blue surface of the sea, the most distant of them just white dots where their sails reflected the sunrays and right in front of them, but still within a remarkable distance, were the red roofs of the town, looking like a patchwork quilt of red and white fabric.

“That ain’t no merchant ship,” Liam said when they passed a small flagless ship. “Spanish privateers.”

“Legalized piracy?” Louis asked and looked at a rowboat doing rounds at one of the ships that lay on anchor a few hundred feet offshore. “I didn’t know Spain authorized their actions. Aren’t they meant to return the intact cargos to their crown? What are they doing here?”

“Raiding the town?” The quartermaster didn’t seem too concerned. “But what’s the meaning of stealing when you can’t keep it?”

Someone bit into an apple behind them and mumbled past the mouthful of fruit. “Maybe they are given land. I wouldn’t mind a few square miles of Spanish soil. “  
Louis glared at the blond. “And I wouldn’t mind a few apples, but I see that _some people_ have other ideas.”

Niall pretended he didn’t hear. “How much land did you own, Tommo?"

“I, uh, never really counted,” he averted and found the fabric of his pants interesting, suddenly.

Thankfully, Niall was the kind of person to let it go. “Cap says they are surveyin’ all foreign ships. He needs to go offshore to attend to some matters of his.” He lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, I bet he’s gainin’ information of a new ship we are chasing. By the looks of it, this is gonna be the raid of the century. A _very_ high-class vessel”—a meaningful eyebrow raise—“possibly even secured by two or more other ships.”

Ed joined them with a sombre, “It’s no joking matter. Put your best clothes on, gentlemen. Better conceal everything incriminating. From now on, we are just men in trade.”

On land, the piers and the market place bristled with life. Dozen more ships were docked along it and the whole place had a very colourful atmosphere. Although he could not make out any objects in great detail, the fruits, coats, dresses and several brighter spots he suspected were parasols created a whole another kind of sea. One that moved like a field of flowers in the wind. It was welcoming. Even the wind off the sea felt warm on his skin. Yet, he had been away from big towns for so long he was actually intimidated by the concourse.

This time they anchored their ship and tied it to the pier. The man in charge of the fees was given a few shillings and a fake name.

“Be careful. The King has spies everywhere,” warned Liam when they joined the disembarking crowd, once the rest of the crew had streamed off the ship, eager to either drink or eat for their heart’s content. Zayn and the captain were nowhere to be seen for no one’s surprise.

They threw stealthy glances around the mounds of fruit, boxes and cargo, past the sailors shouting in French and walked by the men boarding a soon departing Trading Company ship. Ducking his head, Louis’ gaze kept flitting past the stands, and as if on cue, he saw movement in carriage lodged by the curb. Its curtain swung shut. He shrugged it off.

It smelled like Louis guessed all population centres did. The smell of smoke, droppings and still water was dominating in the air, but there were also the more unique scents that could only be linked to their respective cultures, like fresh bread, gardens, foul cheese and other signs of life.

In looks, Paris and particularly the royal town of Versailles would be richer, but the new styles had reached the town, too. A carriage rolled past and through the window, Louis saw a man with ridiculously detailed coat and snorted. The French, although silly and harmless, had always plumed themselves on their decorum from taffeta to satin, from silk faille waistcoats to cloves. Far too warn in this weather.

The architecture was also relatively grotesque, he noted as they walked toward what he guessed was the town centre. Often utilizing sculpted, odd-looking gargoyles and monsters to make these items seem more ‘amusing’. Whether they really were fashionable or not, he couldn’t really say.

The men walking before him turned right and edged their way through a passageway between two houses and Louis mournfully looked towards the main roads. They would have been good for finding his way back, if he were to return to the ship alone in the dark. When Liam turned around to see what was taking so long, Louis gestured at the gobbled streets sheepishly.

“I had better stay in here,” he told him.

Liam looked to where the crew had disappeared from sight, hesitating. “Do you want me to keep you company?”

“I am all right,” Louis said meekly. “Just go. Have fun.”

Liam didn’t budge, although his stubbornness looked like it was because he wanted to ask something, and not because he refused to leave a friend alone in a new town. “If you.” He stopped. “If you see Zayn, will you tell him I’m waiting for him?”

“Sure.”

Looking appeased, Liam turned around with a small wave and soon disappeared from sight as well. Louis made his way back to the market place which proved to be a smart choice. The twisting streets with similar cobbles and houses almost got him lost.

When he finally emerged into a wider street from where he could see the stalls lined along the docks, he noted they weren’t the only foreign people here. On his way he had heard Spanish, English and Greek and walked past some people he thought were Prussians. Sixty or so pirates would not stand out, he realized with awe and wondered whether this was part of Crimsonblade’s scheme.

Three women chatted amiably at the stand nearest him, next to a cheese with eye-watering fumes. It was just town gossip, but it interested him once he heard the words _le roi_ and _le excursion_ in the same sentence.

Terrible suspicion sunk in.

Call it intuition, blind reaching or downright obsession about making everything about the captain but alarm bells sounded in his head at that. “Pardon, _madame_. I could not help but over hear. Can I ask where His Majesty went?”

“Oh, they have not left yet. His Highness, as a gesture of good will, shall make excursion to England to attend a funeral.”

If sailing wasn’t his thing, politics was. He was surprisingly good at guessing people’s motives behind their action, for in the court, people wanted to either be him, kill him or leech off him. The piece’s where knitting together in his head. With trepidation, he asked, “Whose funeral?”

“Prince Louis’.”

 

                                                                                                                      

  
  
He had been fuming on the pier when Crimsonblade found him; watching the flutter of fins and the glittering scales of the fishes that ventured close to the surface in hopes of catching something edible. A shadow fell on the water, the sun behind the person outlining his figure. The fishes scattered.

Louis turned away from the water, and seeing Crimsonblade’s careful smile, frowned and angled his chin away from him. _So now my company is welcome….I wonder what changed._

“Hello, Tom.” When he got no reaction, the pirate let out a frustrated noise somewhere between hurt and angry. “Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment?” he asked incredulously. “What have I—?” He pursed his lips as though silencing himself. Then fiddled with his rings, stopping a few times but not letting himself say his thought out loud. “I guess I deserve that. I am sorry for ignoring you.”

As much as Louis wanted to rejoice in the rare apology, he couldn’t. “That’s not even half of it.”

The captain stared at him without a hint of nervousness in his eyes and the prince stared right back. There must be something in him he could still reach to, he thought, remembering the kisses and some gentleness in a few of his actions before this feverish concentration. It probably wouldn’t be wise, very probably would end up with a broken heart, but he had never been good at following authorities.

“Unfortunately,” the captain said, playing his part of dump and confused rather credibly, “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Then, unless Louis had imagined it, he almost saw the spark as an idea formed behind those green eyes. “Enlighten me, Your Majesty.”

It was like someone had held a torch under his feet that tangled off the pier when Louis jerked so violently that the fish that had regathered, fled for their lives anew. Louis hated the traitorous response of his body, and while Crimsonblade did look at him measuredly, he couldn’t be sure if he had given himself away.

“Yes, Harold?” he said to cover it up. Breathless, for his heart was beating a staccato rhythm behind his ribs.

It had the intended effect. Crimsonblade looked murderous but when he spoke, his voice was toneless. “So, Payne let that slip, didn’t he?”

“Sang like a bird,” Louis replied sarcastically. “How do you know it wasn’t Zayn?”

“I trust him,” was his simple answer. “You are too young to understand.”

Louis scowled. He was very aware of the scruffy jawlines half of the crew had. He unconsciously brushed a hand along his chin. “I would be more careful if I were you. The next time the crew votes for the captain, I shall vote for Liam.”

Harold didn’t look threatened – just the opposite; he looked entertained as he sat down beside him on the planking. “You can’t vote.”

“You made that rule up,” said Louis in confidence that started to diminish when the pirate smirked. “Figures. Only you would put some rule about denying voting rights from roy—um, nobles into the Code. Come on, you must fear something.”

“It’s been long since I have feared of losing my life or of losing someone else. I am only scared of non-fulfilment.”

“You mean failing a mission? Given by God?”

Harold, having stopped midst shrugging off his thick coat, looked at him with raised eyebrows. “It’s nice you think so good of me,” he remarked, although he did not sound sincere. “No, it was given to me by me.”

“And one you shall execute alone?” Louis pointed out in turn. “Is that why you don’t drink?”

The pirate got that look again—the one that told Louis he might have hit too close to the truth for the pirate’s liking. “Intoxication is a distraction.”

“That sounds very lonely to me,” he pointed out. Harold scoffed. “What about your family?”

“What about them? I have none.”

 _Were they killed when he was young?_ “Is that why you ran?”

To his boundless infuriation, the pirate only answered with a cryptic, “It is and it is not,” that he enunciated carefully. “What about you?”

“Me?” he asked, baffled.

“Why are you escaping your noble life? It must have been a shock when there is no one to pass you your embroidered handkerchief.”

Louis swallowed the hurt the remark made him feel. “You don’t have to make yourself so awful when we both know you’re not. Besides, the noble are not that bad. We are only blinded by our ignorance and fear. This is the century of scientific revolution. Damn the church. Damn the Bible. Facts are what people need, but they are constantly being lied to about your kind. It’s just propaganda.”

The silence was pregnant. Yet the spark had been ignited again, both of them undoubtedly too proud to back down once it was catching fire and far too passionate about their respective things to snuff it out. Except this time. Harold only looked worn out, like all aggression had been cupped out of him.

He simply sniffed. “Fearing what you do not know…how human of them.”

“You are doing it yourself.” When Harold looked at him as if one of the fishes had started to talk, he elaborated. “I mean disinformation. Why ‘Crimsonblade’? Why let people develop a fear of a name that is not yours? Why not call you Harold?”

This time it didn’t cause any bursts. Actually, it did not have any effect at all.

Looking like something had died inside him, Harold answered, “Better anything other than my real one. You now who my name derives from? _Henri_ ,” he spit like it was poison on his tongue. “And from what I have heard, we share the same eye colour—a token of my father’s genes.”

When Louis had wished to hear this, he had imagined it happening under very different circumstances. He had hoped he would gain the said information midst a polite conversation, perhaps whispered into each other’s ears like the hidden secrets they were. Not uttered out of anger because then they didn’t encompass any of the sweetness he had dreamed they would.

Instead, his fingers made several aborted movements to stop Harold from leaving, finally opting for placing a calm hand on the pirate’s forearm that left tense as iron under his palm. His hand was curled into a fist. And the longer he thought about the pirate captain’s history, the more his head started to hurt. _He was French? What was he doing in Cheshire, then? What had happened to his mother? What had made him plot a patricide? Who am I to him? A piece in his game?_

“You’ve schemed this since forever, haven’t you? To kill the King of France who is also your father?” He threw a glance behind his shoulder but the market place had been long since emptied. The noise of the sailors boarding their ships around them would have drowned out even shouting.

Harold appeared to be mad at himself.

“Was this plot ready before you ‘helped’ me,” he asked and withdrew his hand. A cold feeling was descending on his whole body. “Which, I guess now, was to keep me on your ship long enough for my father to consider me ‘missing’ and a funeral would be organized." The situation had gone too far now, for him to continue in denial. His secret was and had been out. "Why are you doing this? Taking revenge on the king?”

“It is personal.”

“Yes, I gathered that much.”

When he risked a glance at him, he saw that Harold was looking at the ocean, past the rocks and focused on something Louis couldn’t see in the early sunset-painted distance. He still wasn’t able to fully read his emotions but there was something wistful in the angle of his eyebrows and something warm in the glow of his eyes and cheeks. The memory must have been extraordinary in its nature, if it caused both sadness and joy in a man like him.

“I’m doing it for my mother,” the pirate told him finally. And when he looked back at him, his whole face was closed off.

“You mother…” Louis started to ask but Harold wasn’t finished.

“I want to see _his_ face when I tell him by whose hand he is going to meet his demise. I want to _see_ the realization cross his face before I pull the trigger,” he continued urgently. Harold’s cheeks were blotchy red, and for the first time now, he represented the passionate, violent character he had seemed when Louis had first met him. “I want to enjoy his look of horror and regret, if he’s able to feel that, when he realizes he should have thought twice before sinking his long plum in every maiden in France.”

Louis felt his cheeks colour, but his redness was out of embarrassment. He could probably never hear sex mentioned in any context without blushing. “It if it his infidelity that concerns you—“

“It is not about the number itself, but what he does with it! He. Does. Not. Care.”

But Harold did. He was quite passionate about the things he loved, and Louis should have seen it; sensed it when he stole the locket back to himself, or when the pirate refused to lay to rest the fact he owed Louis for saving his life. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, goes the saying, after all. And Harold had apparently decided to live by it.

“Are you sure she would have wanted that?” Louis tried carefully. He felt like the captain would spring to his feet in any minute now. “To see her son turn into an outlaw and murder people?”

“She lost her life while giving me mine. Don’t speak like you know my mother.”

“Fine!” Louis scoffed. “But I’m sure she loved king Henri and wouldn’t have wanted for you to waste your life on something so stupid and childish as holding a grudge against someone who – possibly, maybe – was innocent, after all? Or do you pride yourself on your ideological justifications for piracy?”

Harold let out a cold laugh. “Father figures aren’t my thing, not that I’ve had any luck with either. You know what forced me to turn to piracy?” After Louis’ shrug and subtle go on –gesture, he continued: “He disowned me. My foster father kicked me out after he caught me snogging our kitchen boy. We were fifteen.”

Louis wasn’t sure how to comfort him, as he had no experience about coming out to a parent. He didn’t know how to proceed from there, either. “Well, if it helps, I—“

“It would help if you just left me alone.”

It hurt. Louis wasn’t sure why. Harold looked as though something was trying to break through his façade, showing through the cracks in the well-polished surface of his armour-like shell. But it did not survive trough the texture. Why had he expected things would be different after a few confessions, because, after all, how can one love and trust someone without actually knowing them at all?

Louis rose, swallowing hard and brushing his hands on his pants. He did not want to meet Harold’s eyes, and it seemed the other man had similar ideas. Before he left, he couldn’t help but say: “Pretending you don’t have a heart is not the best way to not get it broken. It’s just the easiest.”

Then, he walked to the far end of the pier and never looked back.

After what felt like eternity of looking at something and at the same time nothing at all, a door in his right, creaked open softly and a sinewy figure slipped through the gap, and startled once they laid eyes on the prince sitting cross-legged on the edge of the curb. The man was covered by the shadows of the dying day, but when he stepped on the dirt, Louis recognized the trinkets glittering on his belt.

“What did you do?” Zayn said as a greeting of sorts.

“Well, hello to you, too. Did you know Liam was looking for you?”

Zayn made an impatient noise somewhere in the back of his throat. “Stop stalling. You must’ve done something.”

“Me?” He was genuinely bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“The cap looked like he was brewing up a storm––and only you are able to get under his skin like this. And now I can’t find him.” He looked terrified of the matter.

“Well, I…we,” he stammered. “We fought. Just a disagreement, really.”

Zayn’s gaze became sharp. “About what.”

“Oh, you know. Things,” he said lightly but failed. “Families.”

Zayn groaned and promptly took a seat on the hard ground, the only ungraceful movement Louis had even see him do. “Be glad you’re alive,” he said. “He’s not going to give that information willingly. Talking about his pasts is a strict no, no, if you want to be on good terms with him.” He threw Louis an unreadable glance. “But I guess you wish to be more than that.”

Louis barely restrained the guilty squeak at getting caught, again. “I’m not indifferent,” he told him at last. “But he makes it very difficult.” He did not elaborate on which way.

“He does have a habit of pushing away things that are good to him. But that doesn’t mean we, or anyone for that matter, should push ourselves on him or let ourselves get pushed away.”

“Tell me about him,” Louis begged, not unlike when he had tricked Liam into telling his part. “I can’t help him if I don’t know what I’m helping him with.”

Zayn’s chest heaved with a long sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Everything,” the first mate parroted. “I don’t even know where to start…”

“How about your side of things."

The first mate agreed. Louis tried to cover his surprise. Zayn had warmed up to him, whether from someone’s (in other words, Liam’s) request or spontaneously, only he still wasn’t exactly what one could call forthcoming. But that was Zayn to you.

“Fine. But I’m telling you this only because I want to see him get better. If he orders me fifteen lashes, I expect you to take them for me.”

“At this point I can’t say for certain he won’t gladly make me walk the plank as well.”

“Alright.” Zayn seemed to take a large breath. “I should start by saying my career at sea started five years ago as a galley slave. Just a hundred feet long galley fleet. The others and I were crowded into the brig with hardly no room to breathe, move or sleep, other than the times we were forced to row the vessel. We, a diverse assemble of people from Arab countries that included some boys I knew from my village, were to be taken to the New World. A world where others were promised a new life—a better life—and riches. But what were we to get? The rest of our life in shackles, working on someone’s cornfield in a poor province? Our freedom was taken from us for good.”

He hummed. Louis sat there in horror, shock-still.

“I would have given anything to be elsewhere. During nights I heard the men pray Allah to have mercy on them. I was one of them. I know you’re looking at me pityingly but everything takes place on His will. And for a reason. Some were losing their hope. I didn’t want to hear it myself.

“I remember the day it happened like it was yesterday. It had been getting relatively cold, the rain poured in through the holes of the lattice hatch, but we were warm because of the shared body heat. And then the pirates came. I remember the sound the men made when the large hatch that led to the deck was opened and someone came down the ladder.”

“A bad guy?” Louis couldn’t help but ask. If the story were to turn nasty, he would ask him to stop.

“No. Let me finish.” For some reason, Zayn was smiling. “It wasn’t one of the slave traders, but a young boy. A curly haired boy, and guessing by the roundness of his cheeks, he was younger than me. Fifteen at most at the time.”

Louis got the sense who they were talking about, but still had a hard time connecting this cherub to the man currently plotting murder somewhere in the town. Zayn must have seen his skeptical expression, for he shook his head.

“You must be thinking that whatever happened to him was after this encounter. But you are wrong, because when he stopped in front of our brig, framed by the bars, I remember thinking that he must have been something else. Bitter, charming, mistreated, angry. I saw all that in his eyes. He looked like he had beheld all the evil there was to see in the world. He spoke to us. No doubt fluently in several languages. But only I knew a little bit of English because of the travellers and explorers that still used the Silk Route.

“His captain didn’t want to take us aboard, but Crimsonblade insisted. He was about a head shorter and twice as thin, but radiated an air of someone in charge when he said he would take full responsibility of me. And an oath like that meant a lot; sharing the mere food he had, sleeping on the floor and giving me his hammock. He taught me to fix sails. The rest I taught myself or it came naturally. As you see now, we formed a bond. Came to some sort of mutual agreement because of the horrible pasts we shared. It’s unique.”

“ _He_ did all that?” Louis had to confirm, flabbergasted. “What happened afterwards?”

“When we were good enough, we started on our own. We stole a ship, started to recruit, and the rest you know. I wasn’t kidding when I say he saved my life.”

“I still can’t wrap my head around it, to be honest.” Louis confessed.

“You only know him the way he is now. He’s not that much different. But he hasn’t let anyone get close to him, either, since me. Until you.”

“You call _that_ ‘getting close?’” He gave a weak laugh. “What happened to the rest of the slaves?”

“The journey across Atlantic takes three months if the weather allows. If they didn’t manage to stop to restock, they must have died of hunger. The men in the brig being the first to go.”

Louis swallowed. “They could have started a mutiny,” he suggested, to lighten things up.

“They could have,” Zayn agreed. His smile was sad. But then Zayn’s face darkened. Somewhere in the distance, a bell signalled the change of the day with its booming strikes. Midnight.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just … I just got a funny feeling. C’mon, let’s check something. I hope I’m wrong.”

 

                                                                                                                               

  
  
They had walked to the bad side of the town; drunkards, scarlet women and other riffraff of the society littered the streets and the steps around the doors as Louis struggled to keep up with a briskly walking Zayn who had his mouth set into a stubborn line. Louis wasn’t sure whether he did it in anger or in order not to breathe in the stench of horse manure and other things that had stained the cobblestones they walked on. The prince swore they were getting dirtier and dirtier by every block.

Zayn crossed the street, barely looking left or right, and narrowly avoided being trampled by stagecoach. He was heading towards a door with chipped yellow paint – outlandish in the midst of black cobble, dark houses and lampposts. The raven haired man raised a fist and rammed it against the door, making Louis flinch.

Louis found himself wondering who the house belonged to and how Zayn knew to search the captain from there. _A lover’s house_ , his mind suggested, causing the prince’s blood to light like fire lighted gun powder. Suddenly, he considered kicking the door in a fairly good idea.

He didn’t get to do that, unfortunately.

A man opened the door. His moustache was streaked grey like his hair, skin pale and papery and his eyes looked somewhat milky; red-rimmed and slightly unfocused. Louis couldn’t have guessed his age even if the tried – but something told him the man was younger than he looked.

“Nous sommes pleins soir,” he said. His gesture told them they were not welcome. And then translated, “We’re full” like he expected them not to speak the language judging from their looks.

He made a move to shut the door but Zayn’s hand shot out and gripped the door handle. “We’re aware of that,” he said patiently for someone who had tried to hit their knuckles trough someone’s front door mere minutes ago. “We’re looking for a friend of ours. We’ll cause no trouble.”

The man looked at them sharply, or as sharply as he could manage with his lazy gaze, as if as it was usual for people to appear on his doorstep and ask for a permission to enter with imaginative excuses. “We’re full,” he repeated slowly. “No Englishmen here.”

Louis huffed in a frustrated manner. “A tall man, curly hair, green eyes and a lot of tattoos.” The man blinked at him. “Probably had a broad-brimmed hat.”

“No. Englishmen.”

Louis looked at Zayn, at his certain expression and at his hand that was still holding the door open wide. If he was sure the captain would be found here, he was here. “Ne fais pas l’innocent, tu sais très bien de quoi je parle!”

The man startled, momentarily losing his grip on the door – a circumstance the raven haired man used for his advantage and wrenched the door open. After the men had stepped over the threshold, the Frenchman muttered a quiet and resigned, “Entrez.”

Beyond the door were a small foyer and a dubiously narrow set of stairs to the second floor. The place had a horrible smell to it – thick smoky air that settled heavy in his lungs and made his head hurt. The man gestured them to follow him and the three of them made their way upstairs. Louis could almost trail his fingers across each wall as he paced the stile.

“Wh-what is this place?”

The man glanced back at him over his shoulder. There was no mistaking his smirk. “A first-timer, eh? No worries, boy, you still have time to turn back. Unfortunately,” he said, “it’s too late for them.”

 _They_ meaning the people currently in the room the stairway had widened to; the two men on the rickety mattress-less bunk bed, a lone man slumped against it – dead or alive, Louis couldn’t tell – and the four people sitting cross-legged on the floor, each group had a smoking container amidst them.

He was in a drug den. And Harold was somewhere in here as well.

Louis raised a sleeve against his nose that had started to sting along with his eyes in the tangy fumes. He felt even sicker than he had in the foyer; like the smoke had invaded his bloodstream and was tuning his brain into cotton. It smelled like Zayn.

The raven haired man let out a noise, heading towards the bunkbeds. For a second Louis thought there was someone on the upper bunk bed under the ratty blankets but when the first mate kneeled before the man slumped on the floor, even the prince recognized him as Harold. Now that Louis looked closer at him, he noticed the similarities he hadn’t seen at first, possibly because he wasn’t spewing insults at him. Harold was staring at the wall opposite him and let out a moan when Zayn shook him. A man on the bunk bed giggled happily; a sound that chilled Louis more than weeping would have.

“Oh, so _he's_ your friend,” said the owner of the place. “You know you could compensate me the damage he managed to inflict. My carpet, you know, the fine _Persian_ one…”

They drowned him out.

It was easy, looking at Harold whose hair was tangled and fell in front of his eyes that were a darker shade of green from whatever he had taken. Louis was scared by the way his lashes never fluttered, of how he never seen to blink, like he was in his own world he preferred over the reality. The though stung.

“You masochistic knob head!”

Zayn’s shout startled the prince as did his slap. The captain’s head jerked from the force of it and even more hair fell on his sweaty forehead. He’s already pink cheeks reddened on the impact area.

“Just stop,” Louis said, taking the other man’s hands in his to stop him from hitting again. He wasn’t sure what had come into the man. He didn’t even seem affected by the stench of the smoke. “We need to get him back to” – he paused and looked at the man hovering in the background – “you-know-where.”

Zayn shook his head. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. I’ve just forgiven him for so many things. But endangering himself? That I cannot turn a blind eye to.”

Louis got the sense that the current roles had usually been reversed.

They reached out to Harold and together they lifted their captain – almost six feet of bone, muscle and heavy clothing – who did his best to appear unhelpful as he staggered and caught himself by seizing Louis. His eyes were red-rimmed, Louis noted concernedly, but he also detected he was gradually returning to this world.

“I’ll marry him, mum,” he muttered. Louis didn’t know whether the chill came from his breath that hit his neck or from his slurred words – not memories because Louis knew the man had never had the chance to talk with his mother. “No, I want to play the piano, papa. No. Stop. Let me go.”

At that point the prince wasn’t sure whether he was talking to his father or if he had confused the dreams and the real life. He did his best to calm him, albeit his voice was bordering on desperate himself: “Harold, please. If there is a decent bone in you, now would be time to use it. Right foot in front of the other. That’s it.”

But instead of walking, he lifted his head that had been resting on Louis’ shoulder, and shot a surprisingly sharp and focused look at the brunet, frowning.

“If I asked you to kiss me, would you?”

Louis, who had not been expecting that, sputtered to a stop like a dying flame in a fireside. _“What?”_

“So you won’t,” stated the captain simply like the prince had just said it was raining and he wouldn’t go out. “That’s good to know. It’s not one of _those_ dreams, then.”  
Louis saw Zayn smirk widely in his peripheral vision. He, on the other hand, was mortified and rather, although strangely, flattered.

“It should take a couple of hours for him to sober up,” Zayn said.

 _You would be the one to know, wouldn’t you_ , Louis thought. Aloud he said, “Good to know.”

The three of them struggled down the stairs towards the door, all the while ignoring the man muttering angrily about his carpets and his centuries old tapestries.  
After just the short while spent inside the den, even the smell of the dirty streets was a relief. The cool night air sobered also Harold who pushed his friend away, stumbling to keep himself upwards.

“Let go, Zayn. I can handle this.”

He didn’t loosen his grip on Louis even a tad, though. His hand was still draped over the shoulders of the smaller man, whose back had started to ache from the taller man’s weight. “Listen, it was very nice of you to assemble this little twosome of yours for this admirable rescue mission,” he continued. “But as you can see, I was having a wonderful—“

They never heard what was so splendid. The moment Louis knew he would start saying the following, his blood had started to boil again and faster than the pirate could realize what was going on, he was lying in a heap on the cold and hard cobble.

“No, you listen,” Louis hissed. “Whatever cause forces you to act like a complete arsehole twenty-four hours a day, it has to stop right now. I have had enough of it. If you hope to keep yourself in my good books, you will know to cease to display yourself as this….little shit.”

Harold, having now propped himself up on his elbows, looked at with round eyes. He opened his mouth, reconsidered his next sentence, closed his mouth and finally said: “M’sorry.”

“Good. Let’s get you back to that ship.”

Liam was waiting for them at the pier where the crew already worked, readying to set sail and tossing supplies aboard. “Good God. He’s baked,” were the first words out of his mouth once he saw his captain who was apparently not so sober after all and who had started to lean heavily against Louis at least five blocks ago. “How did you know where to find him? Was it an inn? A brothel?”

Zayn, having gone pale, did not look able to answer. “A drug den,” said Louis for him.

“Really!?” Liam looked scandalized. “How did—that would have been the last place I would have—Zayn?” He shot a curious, guiles, look at his partner who had been looking greener and greener. Even Louis was feeling a bit queasy and had to avert his eyes from the betrayal that started to swim in his eyes. “Zee?”

“I-I’m so sorry, Li,” the first mate choked out and fell into the arms of the confused looking pirate whose face soon crumbled.

The raven haired man sought the comfort from Liam like someone would have sought another drug to quench the need for a drug. Quietly, Louis led them away, dragging Harold a bit further out of earshot, coming close to where the carriage with the swinging curtains had been. It was still there, but now, the person inside it had come out.

“Excusez-moi,” said a dusky female voice. “Are you from the ship anchored at the end of the pier?"

It was a young woman, her expensive clothing hid under a dark blue riding hood, out of place in the middle of the suddenly a lot shabbier-looking port. The hood was pulled over her head, but when she lowered it, Louis had to let out a breath of surprise, mixed with a pinch of jealousy.

Her fair skin could have been porcelain and her eyes were shaped like almonds, almost surreal in their symmetrical immaculateness. That, and her plush lips that transformed her whole face when she smiled, made him realize that something must have been terribly awry for a woman of her class to travel here from Paris.

Harold seemed to regain his ability of speech. “Are you a ghost from the past? ‘Cause you look like a ghost from the past.”

The lady’s eyes widened. Louis’ must have been as well when he laid eyes on the hot mess that was currently his captain. He almost expected her to jump back to her coach and ask the coachman to drive her back to the civilization—and fast.

“My apologies, my lady,” he said, momentarily entertained by the scene he pictured. “He is delirious.”

“I’m not,” Harold argued, petulantly.

But the lady seemed to shrug it off admirably quickly. She offered Louis a scroll, sealed with a large dot of blood red wax, but it was too dark to figure out the sender. “Give this to your captain, boy.”

Louis didn’t take it. “And if I don’t?” he asked, praying to God Harold would stay silent and let him deal with it with no interruptions from his drunk self.

“I’m just a messenger.” the woman said impatiently. So where the horses standing in front of the carriage, for they neighed, irritated, and tossed their manes. Briefly, Louis wondered that the contents of the letter must be spectacularly urgent if they had waited until the dark to give it for him. However, he couldn’t simply ask Harold if this was a letter he had waited for.

“What is your… _employer’s_ business with him, then?” he inquired.

If she was angry with him, it didn’t show visually. “To rectify the wrongdoings of the past,” she said sizing him up as though counting whether she should give away the information or not. But whatever decision she came to, Louis was glad she did, for the next words she said floored him completely: “The captain was once my brother, you see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop, am I actually on time?! It's February fifteenth, 20:28 (still 3,5 hours 'til self-set deadline) haha!
> 
> So this chapter had a lot of background info etc and it's a big @ feature for those of you who tried to best me at my own game :D Hah, I bet ya didn't see THAT coming, did ya? Also, next content warning will be for smut, be warned...
> 
> Don't know how many of my fist subscribers are still there, baring with me, but know that you are deeply appreciated! And also you new ones: welcome <3
> 
> I hope you had a good weekend xx -M


	9. No Such Euphoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for smut. Also feelz and some mentions of drug use.

Harold’s grip on him slackened and he nearly pulled Louis down with him when the prince tried to save him from crumpling to the ground for the second time that night. “No, you are not,” he said, shaking his head determinedly. Louis kicked his shin but the drug must have dulled his sense of pain. He barely even flinched.

  
 _Yes, she is,_ thought the prince, beholding the lady’s frown and the familiar shape of the eyes currently squinted in doubt. It was too dark to say whether they were the same shade as Harold’s—perhaps darker. Then his gaze dropped to the ring adorning her slender fingers gracefully entwined in front of her. It was _the ring_. And as if sensing his staring, the lady covered her right hand with the other.

  
“You have seen it before, have you?” she asked. “My brother has its twin.”

  
Harold’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Louis, as well, could simply nod, beyond words for whole another reason. From the folds of her riding hood, the lady produced a packet wrapped in light-brown paper. “This is for him, as well, but make sure it is opened only after the letter.”

  
This time Louis took it wordlessly. It was heavier than its thinness suggested, and he could feel a hard, round edge trough the paper as though its content had frames. “I shall look it to it personally, ma’am.”

  
Appeased, the woman nodded, giving a signal to the coachman who let the anxious horses move forward, the carriage bumping towards them. The lady—or, as Louis should start to call her, Harold’s sister—regarded them curiously one last time, eyes lingering on her brothers form but whether she really knew her blood relative stood just ten feet from her, Louis was unsure. Any recognition other than vague sort of interest did not cross her pale features.

  
The carriage came to a halt beside her, and a man sitting beside the coachman jumped down and opened the carriage’s door for the lady. She climbed in, dress rustling in the sudden silence of the night, and tucked the riding hood better under her before the door was closed after her. The carriage took off, Harold’s sisters eyes focused on them until it disappeared behind the corner of the street.

  
Fighting off a certain sort of odd feeling tightening his chest, he guided Harold back to the docks that Liam and Zayn had abandoned by now. Niall came to his help halfway up the loading ramp, and together they succeeded to get the inebriated captain back into his cabin safely.

  
Louis couldn’t help releasing a relieved sigh as the captain’s weight shifted away from his back, and the prince almost felt his crushes joints pop as his body went through that odd floaty feeling when the pressure targeted at one’s body lessened considerably.

  
Harold seemed to be a hairsbreadth of seconds away from falling asleep when Louis took a seat on a chair beside his bed. “Stay here,” the pirate pleaded, voice rough. “It wouldn’t hurt. Even if it’s all a dream.”

  
He was still delirious. Obviously this cuddly side of him that laid his head against the juncture between his neck and shoulder was not truly him. So un-Harold-like. Still, Louis fought not to lay his cheek against those curls. Harold’s eyes closed and Louis let him go as his sleep-languid body sunk onto the mattress of his bed.

  
The prince let him sleep, occasionally fighting the need to check whether he was breathing. The pirate was still pale except for his flushed cheeks, and his shirt clad chest rose very slowly, but steadily. Louis just simply sat there, letting himself be lulled into a false sense of calm just because of what the captain had asked and said during his, undoubtedly, rare weak moment.

  
Zayn, however, had not told him otherwise when he had poked his head through the door an hour or so ago to check on them. “No sneaking into dens anymore,” he had told him, sounding almost relieved. “Liam said he’s not gonna let me out of his sight. I don’t doubt him.”

  
Louis, on the other hand, didn’t doubt the two of them would pull through this.

  
He laid his chin on his hands that were situated on Harold’s pillow. The pirate still smelled slightly like the tangy place as Louis inhaled his curls that tickled his nose. His eyes followed his profile, the red mark on his cheek from the slap, his nose, lips, brow, lids—a lovely light pink colour in them that his paleness had brought out. His eyes didn’t move under them, and Louis didn’t know if that was because he slept so soundly he wasn’t dreaming, or because he was awake.

  
He got his answer when the pink lips moved. “I can hear you breathing in my ear. Quite literally.”

  
A smile tugged the corners of Louis’ lips. “Just checking if you are alive, Harold,” he said, unabashed, because of a sudden burst of boldness.

  
The pirate’s eyes fluttered open and Louis noticed with relief that his pupils were back to their normal size, the green irises vibrant and visible again. “Am I?”

  
“I am not the best person to decide. Perhaps I should fetch Sir Wootton.”

  
Harold crunched up his nose. “Please don’t. I do not trust him.”

  
Louis stood back in his chair. “Why is he on the boat, then?”

  
“He does know what he is doing with the medicament.” He broke off with a cough, and stretched on top of the covers Louis hadn’t managed to pull over him. Then, his gaze zeroed in on something behind Louis’ back, like a read cloth to a bull. It was the letter Louis had both feared and hoped he might avoid like plague. Initially, Louis had thought he might burn it, but faced with the Harold’s mouth puckering in suspicion, he knew the man was deep down curious to know what his father had written him about.

  
Then, as if fearing he might lose his courage, Harold stood up on shaky legs, and after a few swift strides, he snatched the letter from the desk quickly and broke the seal. He shook it open and started to read. Louis turned his back on him, letting him have his privacy.

  
It was a long, boring wait, looking at the wall behind the bed. Then again, he had never been good with doing nothing, especially when he was nervous. Halfway into the wait, he started wishing he had his copy of The Heptameron with him, which he had sometimes read under the yellow glow of the lantern beside his hammock when he had had a rare leisure moment.

  
Finally he was so deep in his thoughts that he startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. When he turned, he saw Harold’s outstretched hand holding the letter out for him to take. The wall had been easier to read than the pirate’s face. He knew what he meant but he didn’t dare to hope…

  
“What?”

  
“Read it,” he insisted. The captain wouldn’t part from it willingly as Zayn had said, but Louis couldn’t help but wonder if he had somehow proved himself worthy….perhaps by saving him and not judging him for his choices.

  
“Read—? I cannot.” Louis shook his head vehemently. “It is yours.”

  
Harold practically growled and thrust it into his palm. “Where is nosiness when you need it…” he muttered, mainly to himself. More forcefully, he added, “You must be curious. That contains all the answers to your questions and more. If you still want to be in my comp—if you still wish to think good of me, there is nothing else to smear my name that I can think of after you have read that.”

  
The scroll of expensive parchment grew in weight in Louis’ hands. Could paper burn someone? It certainly felt so. He opened it gingerly, looking nervously at the places that hinted Harold had gripped it for his dear life. Folded open, the letter was almost three feet long, filled with careful, loopy handwriting that leaned subtly to the right. With last fleeting glance toward still expressionless Harold, he started to read.

>   
>  _To My Son,_   
>  _You may be surprised to receive a letter from me, for I have, after all, seemingly shown no interest in contacting you in the past. I hope the following will soothe some of your pain and feelings of injustice, and although I do hope you would come to forgive me eventually, I know it is hard and I accept whatever decision you shall make. I wish the following will make you at least reconsider._
> 
>   
>  _First, I must ask you to forgive me this secrecy. I did not know in which language I should write to you or how to address a son you have never seen while you drown in endless guilt about not being there, and feeling responsible for whatever horror he has had to face during his early life. And as you have most probably guessed, this letter concerns you and your mother. I apologize for the following, for I do not know how much you have found out yourself, but everything must come clear._
> 
>   
>  _Your mother was a courtesan, and while I dislike favouring someone over others, she was the most wonderful woman I have ever had the pleasure to meet. She possessed an intelligent, self-educated mind, which, paired with her talents at dancing and music, created a combination I had a hard time resisting. Our relationship, although regrettably kept secret because of the perceived immoral aspects of the profession, was not taken lightly by either of us. I even gave her the other of my family rings; the one that is now in your possession. We were very much in love, and it did not end until your mother’s initiative, and mine lasted long after that._
> 
>   
>  _When my wife, former princess of Prussia and the present Queen of France, gave birth to my firstborn son, Filip, your mother placed my freshly formed family obligations ahead of our relationship and refused to plan our social engagements around my marital obligations. Whatever you think of me, you should know I did not exile her from my court. What I didn’t know was that she was with a child, and not only with one but two children. I gained possession of this knowledge after six months of separation via a letter she sent from a convent. I was ecstatic. I was going to have another son, a son I did not expect but one that was even more welcome. I wrote her back immediately, and sent my best men to find the convent. Except two months after that the messenger came back empty handed. She hadn’t survived the childbirth and there was no baby. A tremendous error on my part, but at the time I did not question it, for maternal mortality was probable even with one child._
> 
>   
>  _If I had known that you and your sister survived, I would have taken care of you, like a father should have. I have only now came to regret how easy it is to cover bastards in my lovely country of France I have previously been so arrogantly proud of. How easy it is to cover one’s trail when there are no statistics! But then, like a gift from God Himself, my men heard of twins born in the same day. I was simply overcome. Your mother had named you just like she had written she would in her last letter, which I have now enclosed with her portrait. It was very selfish of me to keep them from you, given that unlike you, I had the chance to enjoy her divine presence you were robbed of._
> 
>   
>  _I imagine now that you must be curious about your sister and what happened to her. I must say she was easier to track than you, for a reason I hope I had not known. I brought her to Versailles where my best maids raised her as though she was a legitimate daughter of mine, and in my eyes, she was. During the coming years, there were requests that the father of this child come forth and present himself to court, so I did. That is probably where the rumours started._
> 
>   
>  _As for you, my son, my men found your foster parents in due course. I heard they were quite simple people, bless their souls, who treated you like no one should be treated. As for their claims of what you are and what you present, I do not care. I am simply happy you are alive, and infinitely grateful to have his chance to set things right for once._
> 
>   
>  _But now, I must get to the part I dread the most, but I am adamant that I continue writing. It must have been the ring that clued you in. I can’t start to wonder what it must have felt to you. If you have half of your mother intelligence, which I do not doubt, you must have figured it all yourself. And for that reason I do not blame you for whatever conclusion you came to all alone, without a parent to consult, for I fully blame myself for not being quick enough. It is true that I feel no marital devotion towards my wife, which unfortunately is the way the world rotates nowadays, but indifferent I am not._
> 
>   
>  _I would also like to apologize for the shock this following information may cause to you. I am not sure how my messenger managed to delay the message, but the woman, as you must have guessed by now, was your twin sister. If you heard that straight for her mouth, it must have been quite the shock, and for that, I apologize again. It was crucial that I was not to trust any of my men, given the sensitive content of this letter, for they could have been fallen prey for bribery._
> 
>   
>  _As for you, my son, you are welcome to my palace, although I advise you to conceal your true identity as a wanted pirate. My love might be enough to forgive you, but not to my people who have gone months without molasses and sugar from the East Indies. They insist on condemnation and I would be dethroned if I showed any allegiance to you. Which I, of course, wish to gain, even if it means willingly committing treason. It is a funny thought._
> 
>   
>  _With love,_   
>  _Your Father, Henri_

For a minute, or what felt like a very tense hour, Louis allowed himself to think. He had feared the man who his father claimed was his friend had been as bad as Harold had made it; wondered if his father had known him at all, or if he had he decided not to care, and to force himself to turn a blind eye toward his wrongdoings. Louis guessed parents were able to hurt you the worst, no matter how long time it had been since you had called them as such. Everything one loved had the power to make one more vulnerable—and that was why love was so powerful: you trusted them to not abuse the privilege.

  
With that thought lingering in his mind, he raised his gaze, eyes misty, and caught Harold’s sitting form from where he was leaned over the brown packet, its wrapping ripped apart on his desk. There were the letters his father had promised, but he wasn’t looking at those. His eyes were fixed on a portrait, yet he stared at a spot a bit too fixedly to come off as being genuinely in thought. The muscles of his face twitched as if trying to morph into an expression but the emotion was a new one, and it seemed his face didn’t quite know how to handle portraying it.

  
“Say something,” Louis pleaded.

  
“What is there to say?” His voice was gruff, emotionless.

  
“Say that you—“ _Have given up on your revenge. Forgiven him. Understood this was all just a humane misstep…_

  
The pirate snorted. The paper in his hands crumbled under his fisted hands. “This, here. This is supposed to be a letter from my mother, yet I look at this—the handwriting, the phrasing—and I actually still have no idea who my mother was. I can’t figure out any character through these.”

  
Louis could feel he was genuinely upset over it, looking at the portrait and then at the letter like he wished to piece it all together. He felt sorry for him, and feared it showed all over his face.

  
Then it exploded like a storm on a warm, moist day. Harold let out a grievous shout, and threw what looked like an astrolabe across the room. It connected with the wall, the small wheels inside the thing scattering around like crumps of dry bread. Then flew a bottle of ink that shattered on the far corner of the cabin, and then another item he didn’t manage to identify. The next thing on his hands was the portrait of his mother, and just as Louis screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the beautiful gilded frame shattered all over the floor, Harold lowered his arm and collapsed into the chair behind him.

  
He let out a sob that sounded nothing like he had ever heard from him before, and Louis would never tell anyone about the sounds that came out of his throat at that but he would never forget.

  
He left his wooden chair and rounded the desk, coming to graze his fingers along the pirate’s shaking shoulders. He didn’t cry, but his body heaved with his uneven breaths as his body shuddered. Louis wrapped his arms around him in an awkward angle but hoping the gesture would speak for itself.

  
Broken-hearted. That was what the sounds sounded like, and only for the past couple of hours Louis had been sure the captain had one to break. And only then, did the moistness start to seep into his sleeve as Harold sniffed ungracefully.

  
“Let it out,” he encouraged, otherwise at loss of words. “Let it out.”

  
On the slightly less cluttered desk—thanks to Harold’s fit—laid the painting. The woman’s shoulders were covered by a silver shawl that stressed the perhaps unnatural blush of her cheeks. But Louis couldn’t ignore the likeness between the almond-shaped eyes and the corners of their mouth. Some blueish brushes on her temples where the artist had emphasized the veins and the pallor of her skin. She smiled like she had a secret and Louis wondered if the artist had put the finishing touches on her face right when she had known she was with a child.

  
“She was pretty,” he found himself saying. “She has your eyes and smile.” He looked at Harold who looked a bit sheepish at having lost control like that. “Death is never easy to encounter,” Louis consoled him. “Especially when you don’t give yourself time to mourn. You didn’t, did you?”

  
Harold looked up at him like he just saw him properly for the first time, and perhaps he did. “You’re becoming wiser and wiser. England would have had a strong ruler.”  
Louis wasn’t able to disguise the impolite snort that started at the back of his throat. “Not very likely. They say being a sailor means living a lonely life. Obviously they have never tried ruling a country; being surrounded by people but still so far away and unreachable.” He grew serious. “But, really. I have never thanked you for fishing me out of the sea. Even if you did not mean it, and even though that wasn’t the way I had planned to free myself, I am thankful.”

  
Harold opened his mouth several times, closing it again and again. “I’m not god at talking. Especially not about feelings.” He looked at his lap, brow furrowed. “Actually, I am rather horrible at showing attachment in general.”

  
“I have noticed. Attacking me lips first is not going to equal real communication, mind you.”

  
“Are you going to teach me to woo you?”

  
“If that is what it takes.”

  
The answering expression was not of a man who had searched solace from a drugged haze to muffle his pain. Louis had seen him grin before but this smile transformed his whole face, the real joy behind it…until it got even better. A laugh escaped his mouth. It was abrupt and loud, as though he had forgotten how to control it during the years of its unemployment, and it stopped short because of his apparent embarrassment. Louis wanted nothing more than to give him reasons to laugh and use that lovely, strange laugh more often.

  
“Why don’t we start now?” he asked, biting his lip to cover the lingering smile. “You will find me quite motivated.”

  
Louis flushed but felt a surge of power at the possibility of taking the lead. Later he would blame it on how the pirate’s scent had bewitched him into this irrational being who pushed common sense back to pursue the heady feeling that had gotten hold of him. Or had that been him all along?

  
He tapped his lips. “Here is a good place to start.”

  
And then Harold’s face was really close, his breath hitting his mouth as he murmured, “I am listening.” He pressed a small kiss to the corner of it. “Very.” A kiss on the other corner. “Avidly.”

  
And then he kissed him, or Lois was kissing him, his hands suddenly knotted in the front of his shirt as he pulled the pirate toward him. Harold’s arms came around him as well, and then there was no space between them, and Louis was drawing him down to the floor with him or Harold was willingly coming down to kneel together on the wood. Their arms were tight around each other, pulling the other close enough to breathe them in.

  
Louis finally found the time to savour the texture of Harold’s lips; secure that this time, nothing and no one would interrupt them. Harold’s hands followed the arch of his back. He held the prince tightly like he didn’t want to be able to tell where he left off and the prince begun.

  
A ring got caught in Louis’ lengthened hair, Harold tugging it off of his finger impatiently, and chucking it away. Louis barely registered the clink of the silver ring somewhere in the far left corner of the cabin; had no time to think how hard it would be to find later, before the taller man guided his upper body gently downwards so that he was parallel to the plane of the planking. Laying on the floor, Louis’ thighs fell open, allowing Harold to settle between them.

  
The floor was hard under his back, but not as rough against the fabric of his shirt as he had believed. It appeared that the years of us had smoothed the wood, leaving almost seamless; no unevenness between the fat boards welded to one another with pitch.

  
“Ha—“ he started but the word broke off with a hiss so it came out like _Hazzz._

  
The taller man’s heart seemed to pound through his shirt. “Are we going too fast? Right now, I just need a distraction...”

  
“That is not healthy,” he said breathily, but wasn’t nowhere near ready to stop. He guessed this helped him by not allowing his mind to be anywhere but here now.  
“We can both worry about our bad decisions afterwards.”

  
And Louis liked that. Liked that when it came to them, having control had never been an option. That was why he let his body press him to the floor, let his hands roam the same pattern they had a week or so ago. He also liked the way Harold’s touch was slow, if not even teasing, when it came to the more intimate parts than just kissing.

  
And then, as if on cue, Harold stilled against his body. This was where they had been stopped last time. If his shirt hem lifted even one inch, he would be more intimately uncovered than ever in the presence of someone who wasn’t a servant.

  
But this time the feel of the taller man pressing him down was not unwelcome. Because this time Harold was emotionally invested in this, too. It did not feel like being used. This was like a couple dance where both participants agreed to where it all would be headed to.

  
“Can I…?”

  
Louis was sure what to answer to that. He found he had been ever since he heard Zayn’s story. “Yes. Please.”

  
They removed the shirts together, the pirate helping him tug his shirt over his head from where it had gotten stuck under his back. However, Harold didn’t gather him up against his chest like he had expected, but settled for running his hands along the smaller man’s body so that he could see when they brushed across his stomach and his chest, revelling in the goose bumps that raised along the trail—and if Louis wasn’t horribly wrong, his gaze did contain some wonder.

  
Louis now had time to look at Harold at leisure, no longer petrified by the novelty the situation so beyond honour. He still didn’t dare to touch any lower than the swallows, letting his hands, as well as his eyes, travel over his strong shoulders, sharp collar and—boldly—dip down his arm so his fingertips stroked the biceps he had so many times seen straining those white shirts.

  
Harold, having propped himself over him, apparently wouldn’t proceed further until the prince had really touched him, and thus he splayed his fingers over the pirates ribs, feeling the lungs expanding and contracting unevenly under them as Harold’s breath hissed between his teeth—whether from the coolness of his fingers or from something else, he wasn’t certain.

  
His touch was hesitant and curious as he let them travel south, searching as if as he was looking at a map of a new, so far unknown country. After the dip of Harold’s waist, there was some softer skin around his hips that Louis sunk his fingers into, self-conscious of the way the months at sea had caused him to lose some weight, sure that there were less fullness on his cheekbones, shoulders and hips.

  
His finger stopped on top of the butterfly. “Is this—“

  
“It’s for my mother,” Harold finished. “Sometimes those who shine the brightest have the shortest longevity. Like butterflies.”

  
“She sure was as pretty as one.”

  
“Tom,” murmured Harold, hands still where he had left them on his hip.

  
“No.” Louis had temporarily lost his brain-to-mouth connection. “No Tom. _Louis_.”

  
The captain seemed to like that, judging by his groan of, “Lou. My Lou.” He pressed his forehead against his and Louis was too preoccupied feeling the curls tickle his face to correct his alleged ownership. He kissed his jaw and Louis’ gasp seemed to gratify him.

  
After all the supressing and carefully calculated responses, this was when the pirate was his truest—the most human. A primitive instincts couldn’t be tainted by will, and right now his actions were telling him, “You are precious to me,” and he was rather unabashed about the way his eyes raked the smaller man’s body.

  
He bent to kiss his bare skin. Louis barely noticed he had started to roll his hips against his in subconscious search of friction before Harold’s hand on his hip stilled his movement. The large palms manhandled him into a better angle and Louis went willingly after he noticed the new position would align them perfectly. He gasped against the pirate’s mouth and his right knee rose to create an even more satisfying angle.

  
“Oh God,” he breathed, then reconsidered voicing His name during whatever they were doing, and finally progressed past giving a heck after he felt the first contact of their bare skin.

  
Louis thought Harold might pull off his canvas trousers next but the pirate just laid a hand on the back of his thigh, hitching it further up, and slinging his leg over his hip. Louis couldn’t cover his moan at that, nor look away from the carnation-pink of Harold’s mouth, puffy from kissing.

  
From then on it was just genetic muscle memory and pure, pleasure-seeking instinct on Louis’ part. Not far after Harold’s hand had sneaked under him to cup his bottom, than he felt heath coil in his stomach, causing him to stiffen if anxiety. The pressure between his legs was building and his next moan was more like a half-panicked whimper. He could feel equal tension in the taller man, and finally the knowledge of having brought a person like Harold down to the mercy of his body was his undoing.

  
White-hot fire danced behind his lids and Louis was wrecked by involuntary, shallow shivers as the feeling dragged out, the pleasure buzzing in every nerve inside him. The prince swallowed precarious gulps of oxygen as the hot and cold waves went through him, the two of them still moving together on the floor.

  
The prince clung to him, glad that the sun had yet to come out and peek through the large window just behind their backs, glad that in the little light they had, neither of them could see just how wrecked he must look. He certainly felt so. And finally it registered to him how sore his back was and he grimaced.

  
Harold caught it. He rolled off him so that their sides still brushes against each other, warmth burning his right side. The pirate’s hair was ruffled from the times Louis had ran his hands through it—or fisted it—but instead of looking unkempt, he just seemed young and…open. His eyes were like a window to his soul.

  
Louis wouldn’t know what to feel, if he were to finalize his revenge. Would his seal of approval be forever lost for him? Partly, he was scared of him being hurt as well, although he had seen the ship’s armoury—shelves upon shelves of swords, pistols, muskets—and knew it would be an even match to a royal fleet.

  
“What is our heading?” It came out no louder than a whisper. It felt like speaking too loud would break whatever spell was cast on the cabin.

  
“Yarmouth,” said Harold.

  
“We are going to England?”

  
“I need to do something.” When Louis looked at him doubtfully, he elaborated. “Just to meet an old friend; not an enemy.” He pushed a hand down the pocket of his breeches. Something inside it created a crinkling noise as he gripped it. “You can throw this out. I don’t need it anymore.”

  
On his outstretched hand was a piece of paper. It was small, had just some numbers on it with seemingly no sense although Louis guessed it had been a code of sorts. _Latitudes and longitudes,_ his mind suggested. Coordinates to where His Majesty’s boat would depart. With a start, he realized it would have been easy to be hidden in a bay and wait for the ships to set sail until attacking. Neat. Clean. Fast. But incredibly risky to do in front of a whole armada of Frenchmen. He would have been beheaded faster than Louis could have shouted “No!”

  
At that thought he looked up at Harold. He looked pleased, as though he knew Louis had guessed right and was proud of him. He felt mildly sick again. Had his revenge blinded him that much? Had they been headed to their doom?

  
Would they still be in danger in England?

  
Louis rose to his feet. They shook under him with had only half to do with what had gone under just minutes ago. And when he threw the paper overboard, watching it flutter in the air long before it landed on the waves created by the moving ship, it felt final. No use in the gesture itself really, but as an implication, it was ground-breaking. It wasn’t until he was admiring the ghost-like quality of the pale paper against the dark waves that he was reminded of another sort of ghosts.  
The ghost ship. Something would definitely happen in England. He was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. Hope that was worth something. Never written a smut scnene that long...
> 
> Have a good weekend!! xx -M


	10. A Ship Called Liberté

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for slight homophobia. No name calling, though, bc that's just disgusting.

Walking on the very ground of his home country for the first time in eight months was a strange experience for Louis. As he made his way further into the town of Yarmouth, the men and women crossing his path spared his barely a glance, simply passing him and continuing their way towards their respective houses. Even more peculiar to him was the thought that just six months ago, before the rumours about his alleged death had spread, spacing the dirt road alone would have garnered a lot of attention and many bows. But without his title, he was…invisible.

He felt light and free as though there had been chains wrapped around his ankles all his life and only now, someone had found the key and removed them. Still, there were a lot of people, and if someone looked at him a while longer than the others, the anxious feeling coiling in his stomach since he abandoned the ship strengthened again. _This is not London,_ he reminded himself from time to time. London, where it had become fashionable for the upper classes to spend part of each year.

The street turned a curving right, and soon he found himself standing in the middle of a road that curled along a riverbank, and a few hundred feet from him, was a bridge. It was old and weather-beaten, and the even line of the bars of its railing was broken by a tall figure that leaned against it. He didn’t turn, even though he no doubt heard Louis approach with careful steps.

Things had been good between them—no ignoring had happened, a lot of kisses had been shared and secrets been told during a few nights spent in his cabin—but something had been eating Harold inside, he could tell. So far he had evaded Louis’ question by his usual manner: kissing his curiosity away. Or at least a bit further away; and he was coming awfully good at it.

When he was standing so close there was only two feet between them, a smile broke on his face when he identified the red ring on his finger that drummed against the granite railing. It had never actually been on any member of court, Louis recalled again much to his amusement at his drunk self, but Louis had seen it on the painting of King Henri that undoubtedly still hung in the palace’s gallery. It was nice to see the pirate embracing his roots.

“Harold,” Louis said gently.

“You are leaving.”

It wasn’t an accusation, nor was it a question. It was blank of all emotion, yet the prince felt hope rising inside of him, for it meant he cared. It still wasn’t that kind of love the sonnets described; the one that made a man go mad from loss if fair lady died. But it perhaps was the best he could have.

“Sorry?” he asked, pretending dumb.

“Someday—perhaps in the future, perhaps today—when we set sails, you won’t be aboard with us. And I cannot shake the feeling that this, here, could be you coming to say goodbye.”

“I,” Louis started tenderly. “I just cannot stay with the crew for forever. I had whished for means to escape my own velvet covered prison—and I got that. The person I was does not _exist_ any longer. I am free.”

The prince watched his reaction closely, and definitely didn’t imagine how Harold’s shoulders slumped. “When?”

“Pardon?”

“When,” the pirate repeated, looking like it physically hurt him to say it. His fingers tightened around the railing. “When are you going to leave? Now?”

“I don’t know.” He thought back to the time he had stepped into the captain’s cabin for the first time, not knowing it would be the answer to literally everything—getting free, finding love. A gust of wind whistled past, ruffling their hair.

“Where are you headed?” Harold asked guardedly.

“I do not know,” Louis replied again. “Nor do I want to.” He turned to face the small river as well. The water was a steely blue and it reflected the dark pinkish rose of the sky in patches. “Florence, Venice, perhaps,” he said just to drop some of the names that had most often came across when reading his books.

“Can I—“ Harold hesitated. It sounded foreign. “Can I come with you?”

Louis’ heard skipped a beat. That was not something he had expected; for him to give up everything for him. Disbelief coloured his voice. “You do not even know where that would be.”

He as good as felt as Harold raised one eyebrow. “Should that matter?”

“What about the ship?” At Harold’s dismissive headshake he continued prodding. “Zayn? The crew?”

On the word Zayn, the pirate faltered a little; just a small change in his posture Louis saw in his peripheral vision. “It won’t matter,” he told him. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” His gaze seemed faraway suddenly, before he snapped back into the present. “Hate is a curious thing.”

“What do you mean?” Louis asked tentatively and turned to face him fully.

“It changes people.” He finally looked at Louis in the eye—and then the floodgates opened. “I never meant to hurt the public,” he said. “I guess I never let myself think it through. _If_ I even saw what I was causing to the innocent by my rage-blinded actions.” A fierce look was directed at the ring. “Piracy doesn’t feel the same now that I’m not seeking for revenge,” he continued, softer. “The gist was to ever stop to think about what you have done. Because then your human side catches up, your conscience starts wearing you down. And yet, unexpectedly, I was caught off guard after you all but forced me to relive my past back at France.”

Louis closed his eyes and fought back a flinch. “I should have known better.”

“How?” said Harold. “How could you have known?”

“But I did!” Louis insisted. “At least well enough to, I don’t know, reconsider before attacking you? I mean, I am not a saint.” He ventured a step closer to Harold. “All this is because I just wanted to be the only one to make rules for me.” He faltered. ”That came out sounding as bad as it is, didn’t it?”

“I am not the best to judge,” Harold said truthfully. His eyes flickered over Louis’ face, searching. “I have done pretty horrible things. There is no explanation for some of them. “

“At least we have something in common,” reassured the prince. “People are afraid of us.”

Harold snorted. “I think intimidation is more proper a word. They adore power, but those who have it should prove themselves worthy of it.” This time Harold was the one to close the distance. “But you were right about one thing.”

“Usually.” Louis smiled up at him. “What thing, exactly?”

“The ideological justification for piracy part. I don’t take any pride in it, of course,” Harold added quickly, “but it does make things easier. Like lying. You have to include some amount of truth in it in order to be convincing.”

Louis laid his head against the pirate’s chest. “You care for those you love and protect them, like Zayn. That is enough for me.” He took a deep breath, encouraged that Harold could not see his face. “I never was that close to my family,” he confessed. “We all had our own disagreements. The – my father had many lovers, my sisters were obviously forced to take interest in different things than me, and my mother was the only one who seemed to understand me.”

If his senses were correct, Harold seemed to soften—pliant arms wrapping Louis in warm embrace—at the mention of Louis’ mother. “Are you regretting you left them behind?” he asked.

Louis shrugged. It was awkward to do in their current position. “Not really. I couldn’t have taken them with me, could I? They are so young, with no idea of the real world. You won’t believe how sheltered our lives are.” Then he grimaced inwardly, realizing he was implying he didn’t appreciate the privilege of security, wealth, family and food.

Harold only planted his chin atop Louis’ head in answer. “You shouldn’t feel bad about that. I have done nothing but leaving my past behind all my life.  And I am going to do it again.” He pulled back enough to target a vulnerable look at him, looking already put out by the possibility of a refusal. “So can I come with you?”

“You will stop being a pirate?” The prince looked pointedly down at his cutlass that rested against his left thigh. “Stop _all_ of it?” He needed to make sure that this was not a jest, or a mockery, and that he was being completely sincere. His gaze that met his seemed earnest enough.

“Mayhap.” He smiled, almost shyly, and looked at him expectantly.

But something was holding Louis back. In the best of all cases, they could only offer each other an affair—to be secret lovers. If they were to really abandon all this, the freedom, living in a no-man’s-land, there would be different laws on the other side. Louis bit his lip. “I shall have to think about it.”

He definitely didn’t imagine how the captain’s face fell. “Well, when you are sure, you can search me out. I have to go take care of some things. Meet me by the church at midnight if you want to walk with me to the ship.”

He went to turn around, but stopped as though he had gotten an idea, and twirled back to face Louis. His hands found his hips, holding them carefully, questioning, and a second later Louis lifted himself against him, his mouth seeking his lips. The earlier awkwardness disappeared, and Louis, to his delight, found himself skilled in reading the emotions behind Harold’s movements, and this kiss was all about promise.

 

                                                                                                                 

 

What was it about graveyards that unnerved everyone, thought Louis as he turned away from yet another low stonewall on the other side of which he saw the far too familiar round tops of the tombstones. Or perhaps this was the same, he observed, noting the figure of a stone angel with its outstretched wings.

He was going in circles.

The sky was the colour of metal, and the air felt moist as Louis walked off the main road and slipped into the narrow opening between the houses. The sides of the houses where green on parts where the water damage had stained them, and it smelled of all the things people threw out of their windows in buckets. He wrinkled his nose.

“Lost, are we?” asked a voice behind his back. It was gruff and mostly unfamiliar but sent a tingle of unpleasant, vague recognition down his spine.

Sir Wootton.

Louis swirled around and cursed at himself. Just because the man had been like a fish out of water on board of a ship, that didn’t mean the man was totally incapable of sneaking on someone on land. He watched as the man prowled into the alley with the intent of a cat that had locked its eyes on the target. Needless to say, Louis was the mouse, and very unhappy about his unwilling casting.

“No,” Louis lied. “Just wandering aimlessly around. Have you seen the gorgeous grey church?” He thrust his thumb to point the wall on the right, hoping the man wouldn’t call him out on his bluff. “I think it is in that direction.”

The man’s lips quirked upwards. “Actually,” he said, “it’s this way.” He stalked forward and forced Louis to walk backwards out of the alley. It was too narrow to fit two people side by side. “I shall lead you there, if you follow me.”

 _As if I have a choice_ , thought Louis. The doctor ducked out of the passage as well and started to stride ahead of him like he knew Louis would follow him. He did. They walked in silence along the shadowy streets now long ago deserted. No light streamed out of the windows, and the doctor seemed to navigate only by memory; there was no telling between the narrow, twisting streets and the following, consistently similar passages. But Louis’ thoughts elsewhere. The feeling now inside his stomach was far from the nostalgic feeling that had been brought by the first sight of the sheer limestone cliffs rising several hundred feet over the shore.

They came to a stop abruptly. Sir Wootton had led him to a solitary square in the middle of an uneven circle of wooden houses. The doctor looked around to the shadows between the buildings, and Louis suddenly became aware of the searching look on his face.

“What?” he urged, and recognized the imperious tone his voice had taken again. “Are we lost?”

There was a stone just a feet away from him. Louis restrained himself from kicking it in frustration, and focused instead on the doctor. He looked indecisive; his crisp attire seeming more ordinary midst the English architecture. Absentmindedly, Louis considered just legging it and trying to find the damn thing on his own, but soon came to the obvious conclusion that he had no idea where he was, or where the church located.

Louis huffed, nerves spiking. “Just get on with it!”

Wootton swirled around, face adorned with a scowl. “You are not helping!” he snapped. It was a bit louder than what was considered necessary; and Louis frowned. They would attract unwanted attention soon. “Just shut up!”

“And what is it that you needed me to do exactly?” Louis snarked, and spread his arms. “Stand still and twirl my thumbs?”

“Exactly,” the doctor answered. The sharp look—like he saw more than what was visible—was back on his face. “Stand there and look pretty.”

“And if I don’t,” Louis asked testily, taking a defiant step back.

A muscle jumped in the doctor’s jaw. “Did you know it was I who started the fire?”

“You!?” Instead of continuing backing away, Louis felt his body tighten. His voice was almost breathless with rage when he said, “Aren’t doctor’s sworn to save people?”

“Well,” Wootton said, letting his breath out in a low chuckle. “You see, I am not _just_ a doctor.” He smirked, and Louis realized too late that gaining an outsider’s attention _was_ his intention.

Then the men came in.

About a dozen men streamed into the square from several of the alleys around them, all of them dressed in black and half of them on horseback, carrying torches. They had a name, too, but Louis had never heard it uttered other than in the proud tone of his father, or in the fearful tone of the public. The Yorkshire’s archers; the worst, the most ruthless men of Yorkshire, and also the secret assassination squad of his father. The men’s weapons clanked against their sides, only drowned out by the sound of horses’ hooves hitting the hard-packed dirt.

Louis went through a flood of curses that didn’t go past his lips. For someone who prided himself in his ability to read people’s motives, he had let himself be distracted by something so simple, and fatal, as love. He had expected something would happen. Why had he not thought it would be something that would be executed through him? Why had he not been more careful?

“Is this it?” came out a low rumble. It was a bearded man on a grey horse. His leather gloved hands gripped the reins tight. “We had a deal, mongrel. We wanted Crimsonblade. Not some church rat.”

The sobriquet could have been ironic, had it not been for the muskets cocked at him, and now also at the doctor who took several steps back, hands raised in defence. Otherwise he did not seem unnerved. “Have you ever been fishing, sir?” he asked from the man, much to their bafflement. “As you see, you usually do that with a bait.” He looked around as if to gauge their reaction to this, and then gestured to Louis. “And _this_. This is our bait at the end of _our_ fishing hook.  We shall just have to wait for the large fish to take it.”

But not for long, apparently.

The sound of a gunshot pierced the air. The dirt under one brown horse billowed like dust and the steed reared back. The Archer tumbled off the wild-eyed animal, and the men lost their impeccable formation, scattering to find out where it had come from. In the middle of the commotion, Louis felt a tug at his arm and, by sheer hunch, he followed it.

Curls where bouncing in front of him as he was dragged to the direction of the nearest dark alley between two big houses. The hand gripping his elbow slid into his hand and closed around it securely like it had no intention of letting go. Louis didn’t mind at all.

“Where were you?” he huffed.

“Doing some business.” Harold did not sound annoyed, nor breathless. About half a dozen men had sprinted after them on foot, their drumming footfalls echoing their steps. They took a sharp, curling turn to right. “But the person I wished to see had moved away. We need to go to Lond—“

 _Click_. It had come from the left, _very_ close to where they were just running to, and when Louis turned his head, he saw along black shape that gleamed under the moon pressed to Harold’s temple.

A pistol. The hammer had been clicked.

“Looks like our mole was useful, after all,” said the man in the shadows. When he stepped forward, they saw the detailed embroidery of his jerkin and the vertical line of gleaming buttons. He’s face was clean-shaven; obviously a man in charge. “We have been looking for you everywhere, yet you have slithered past our grip.” He spit on the ground in front of them. “And what a way to go. Everyone has their weaknesses, should have known you would be one of _those_ men.”

The rest of the Archers caught up with them. The leader’s eyes ran up and down Louis’ body and it definitely didn’t feel like Harold’s raking glances, even though it did raise goose bumps on his skin. Harold hissed. His grip on him became two times stronger.

“You know the orders,” the leader spoke to the Archers, pressing the gun harder against the pirate’s forehead. “Find his ship and _bring it to His Majesty_.”

Louis looked at Harold in horror, thinking of the men in there. The pirate, looking pale and not only because of the moonlight, gave Louis a glance that said clearly, _“Get away while you can.”_

The men closed in, crowding into the alley and Louis pressed himself to the wall of the nearest building, starting to inch away carefully. The men, on the other hand, ignored him, focused on capturing the pirate. Roughly, they gripped him by his armpits and hauled him with them.

“We shall report him to the justice of the peace.” The leader said, pushing his chest forward in feeling of self-importance so that his jerkin strained to contain his beefy upper body. “You can only pray for the God to save your soul for the King will not be lenient. He’s had enough of you lot since you killed his son.”

Louis almost couldn’t bear to look at him, but neither could he look away. Why wasn’t he fighting? Why didn’t he attach when both of them knew he could have killed one of them instead of dismounting them? Then, to his horror, he realized he had finally listened to him.

But at what cost…

Louis didn’t remember deciding to do it, to push his way to the centre of the circle the armed men had formed. Short men, tall men, burly men, leader or pawn—it didn’t matter. His eyes were focused on only one person and that was the kneeling pirate looking surprisingly docilely at his captors. Only now, looking at him, did the prince see the difference learning the truth about his past had made. Where had been a young man like a barrel of powder ready to explode, was just a calm man; a barrel of water, unable to ignite.

Louis took his place beside him and stood still. “Over my dead body,” he spat at the man. “I command you to release him at once.” He managed to take their attention away for the pirate whilst using every manner Harold had ever pointed him out on. Chin high, gaze set down his nose. The men looked at him with lifted brows, some amused, some annoyed that a boy was trying to stop their mission. Louis had felt so detached aboard the ship that he had forgotten he might not look his part in the finer society’s eyes, either, any longer.

“Both can be arranged,” the leader answered. “Just not necessarily in that order.” He snapped his fingers. “Take him away, as well.”

He didn’t dare to look at Harold.

“You shall accompany us to London, then. Although delaying our mission after the funeral is not the smartest thing you could have done. Perhaps the king will consider your madness amusing. Otherwise, they are more than ready to welcome another flea bag.”

Louis managed to swallow despite the tightness of his throat. When he glanced to his left, he found Harold looking at him with a wounded expression. He averted his gaze guiltily – mouthing simple _I’m sorry_ didn’t seem to cover this mess he had gotten them in. still, he returned to look, memorizing every angle. He swallowed. I am not afraid of death, the pirate had said. _But I am. I am afraid of losing you to where there is no return from,_ though Louis.

The men saw the exchange and smirked. “Take a good look, son,” the bearded man jeered. “Next time you see him, he will be a head shorter.” He flipped his pistol around so that he gripped the gun barrel. Before Louis had managed as much as let out an utter of warning, he had swung his hand back and struck Harold with the butt of the gun. “Just so you won’t get any ideas,” he said with a confident quirk of his lips.

Harold crumbled to the ground, legs still bent under him. The skin of his forehead was split open and bloody where the gun had connected with it. His body twisted into an awkward angle and went horribly still.

 

                                                                                                                              

 

Harry laid on a bed and felt as though the universe and King Daniel were playing a cruel, cruel game with him. Firstly, it was the room he was imprisoned in, used to hold in high-status individuals—which he of course was not. It was small with flowered wallpaper and furnished very scarcely: a washstand, a fireplace, a table, the bed, and a bedside table with an oil lamp, which was the only lighting in the room, although he could have asked amenities from the Lieutenant of the Tower (though he suspected every item and extra food would manifest itself in a blunter and blunter axe).

It was the first time he had got a taste of something luxurious since he was fifteen, and it felt like a horrible reminder that this was going to be his last taste of anything until the end. The last time he had seen the daylight had been when they had let him out to watch his ship burn, lighting the Thames with the orange glow of the blaze. It felt like watching them violate his mother. A sick show. The last desperate attempt of a bitter man the King had come.

It shouldn’t matter, though. His execution would be held on the notorious Tower Hill, just to the north of the castle, or rather the White Tower, where he was currently fenced in. Or maybe he should be thankful. In the New World they would have put is decaying body on display after making him face the gallows for them all to see.

Secondly, there was Louis. As a royal castle, the Tower would also house the royal family on occasions, and there was a high possibility that somewhere, past these walls, was Louis.

He had dreamed he was lying on a bed with silk sheets and frilly pillows in a large bedchamber with red velvet curtains framing his field of vision, dark teak wood of the four poster canopy bed overhead.  Dreamed that Louis had come to the room, lifted the duvet and slipped under it. _I love you,_ Louis had said to him as his naked form had wrapped around Harry’s. _You do know that, right?_

Harry had kissed him. _I love you enough to be content with half your heart._

 _You could have had it all if I weren’t a prince_. He had looked so horribly sad then, his broken-hearted expression reaching for Harry’s heart and squeezing it like a vice. His smell was tainted by a stronger, sugary scent that lingered on his person, far too potent for Harry’s liking. He had been with _her_ again.

Then, he had no longer known what was dreaming and what was being in the reality; he just remembered the burning hot jealousy, a remaining memory of how his fingers had itched to sink his blade into the neck of the faceless girl who could call herself Louis’ consort, despite having promised Louis not to kill anyone.

The hard bed, on the other hand, was very real under his back. Very rarely he got the luxury of hearing a sign of life, it was that quiet, but at that moment, the sound of oncoming footsteps, and the echo of boots on stone became gradually stronger, before he heard the sound of keys being inserted to the lock. If it was the man again, asking whether he should fetch the clergyman for him to say his last prayers to, he would not be able to be polite this time.

The door creaked open. “Harold.”

The voice was high-pitched but slightly rough and so familiar it sent a tingle down his spine. He also may have imagined it. But when he dropped his gaze from the ceiling, now bathed in sudden light, he saw Louis dressed in the blue uniform of an officer, alight by a lantern. The jerkin was a bit too large on the shoulders and waist, but the deep blue colour made his eyes positively pop, leaving Harry breathless.

“You look ridiculous,” he said instead.

Louis rolled his eyes like he had seen through him. “Don’t get used to it.” He stepped further into the room, looking dubiously around as though searching for more locks to open, but there were none. “Besides, you only specified searching you out, not what I should look like while doing so.”

Harry’s heart sped up. He was there to see him. _He had come_. “A bit late, isn’t it? I signed a confession to the ‘murder of the crown Prince’, you know.”

“I know,” Louis told him on a low voice. “It’s best for the public to have someone to target their hate to, someone to blame.” He reached the bed and placed his lantern on the bedside table. “My father would look like a fool if he simply stated I was alive. I am sorry his mind could only think of you.”

“Nothing you could have done.” He waved his concern away. “You smell of lavender,” Harry pointed out, having caught a whiff of the smaller man’s scent when he walked past. “You used to smell of it when you first came to my ship.”

The prince blush was notable even when he tried to hide his cheeks from the sources of light. “It is the bath oil. I—my skin was dry.”

Not that he had ever seen anything wrong with his complexion, Harry thought, drinking in the glow of Louis’ skin in the flickering orange light. He must have looked at him like one looked at a beloved place he was sure he would never see again, trying to memorize the details so that they would be painted on the backs of his eyelids, conveniently available when he would close his eyes and fall to a never-ending sleep. He couldn’t hide himself from someone whose eyes were the exact shade of blue of Pacific Ocean on the rare times he had sailed that far. The shade of freedom.

“I love you,” he heard his voice say. “I have always loved you even though it must not have showed.”

The smaller man’s eyes were wide from surprise and – horror? “Come again?”

Harry came to sit on the end of the bed, some of the light dimming inside his chest. His hands had a tremble in them that he blamed on the draft. “I can’t deny it. If I must die today or tomorrow or any day next week, I shan’t not confess it to you. Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Louis said.

Hope flared inside his chest, no matter how hard he tried to quench it. Maybe he didn’t want to return the sentiment to someone who was about to die. Perhaps it would be easier for the prince to get over him if he was able to convince himself he hadn’t loved him and saying it out loud was too final, making it impossible to deny. He sounded ridiculous even to his own ears. _If you must reject me, do it now,_ his mind screamed. _Fast. Neatly_.

Louis continued, “I can’t—“

Harry tried not to force him, but; he needed to hear it even though he had never _dreamed_ – he did note his overly dramatic use of the word – of being told those words of someone’s heart, of someone’s soul. “Please.” His begging was faint. “I will…” he hesitated because he had no idea what he was able do in order to change his opinion of him. If he even had enough time left for it.

“Just—just shut it for a second, will you,” the brunet snapped, his nerves causing him to lash out. “I am trying to figure out how to save you here, and you pouring your heart out is _not_ helping the case. I was just saying that I can’t believe you thought I would let you…“ His voice cracked. “That is how people talk when they think they will die.”

So cracked Harry’s heart. “I am sorry then,” he started, his voice finding its strength suddenly. The apology rolled so easily from his tongue now. “I should have given you more time to say it yourself—the way I would prefer you to tell it—and not pressure you into it.”

Louis smiled _that_ smile—the one that told him he was about to do something he would not guess beforehand. “I love you.”

His all of sudden mended heart seemed to have swollen twice its size. “Should I suppress a swoon?” he teased to cover the stinging at the back of his eyes. Weeping once had been enough crying for a year. “Now that I have been wooed by a real prince.”

“So you knew all this time? Even before…”

 _The kisses_ , Harry thought similarly. “Yes.”

“So I am forgiven?” the prince asked. There was too much curiosity in him, contained by a life that would not be let it be satisfied. It was the strong thirst for an adventure that had kept him on his ship. It was what had made him put up with him. And Harry wasn’t about to complain. “No grudges about my royal blood?”

Harry let out a fond exhale. “Yes.”

Louis looked up at him with a smile that broke— _shattered_ —the last bits of his resistance that had not been remarkable to begin with. He had left his walls down and he had had no time to build them back up before assaulted by the smaller man’s stunning presence. He could read what was in Harry’s eyes, plainly written, and it was no use to hide it.

He pulled the prince against him and clung to him helplessly, feeling the other warm and comforting in his arms. He breathed him in as Louis’ hair brushed his cheek. “Must you always be this chivalrous?”

“Is that you admitting this is the third, if not fourth, time I save your sorry arse?”

Instead of replying, Harry drew him even impossibly closer, and before Louis had the change to ask him to use words, he pressed his lips to his. The sound the smaller man let out was not exactly surprised, but more like pleased hum as his hand sneaked to the nape of Harry’s neck and gripped the hair there, firmly. Not that he complained.

Harry’s hands travelled from the prince’s elbows to his back, gripping the crisp, royal blue jerkin. He often forgot how delicate Louis’ bones felt under his hands, usually covered deceivingly by the curvy body, but giving themselves away in the form of the very fine-boned ankles and wrists.

But weak he was not. He understood now why some male seabirds circle around the female during mating rituals like they are the centre of their universe. During the time in France at the den, he had felt like the ground had been unsteady under his feet and he had clung to him, small as he was, as if he could hold him up.

Louis was the one to break off the kiss first. “Let’s get you free, shall we?” he breathed into Harry’s ear.

Harry shuddered and nodded, casting a glance around the room. “How?”

In answer, Louis put a heap of clothes on the bed. To his displeasure, he recognized the royal blue piece of clothing. He eyed the smaller man. “You must be joking,” he groaned.

“Don’t ask,” was all Louis said besides giving him a stern glance. He gave a shove to the pile of clothes, pushing the blue uniform of a guard towards him, which he put on, reluctantly. “You clean up nice,” the prince remarked, smirking.

Harry glared at him but it was soft. “You are enjoying this too much for my liking.”

They walked to the open door. The corridor behind it was empty, and it concerned Harry more than Louis, and the pirate couldn’t help but wonder if this was the natural state—which was preposterous—or if today was some sort of exception. He didn’t like it.

They walked towards the end of it where shadows were collecting, Harry fiddling, unnerved with the deserted hallways. “I wasn’t too sure that you would give up the luxurious life,” he told the smaller man, filling the silence perhaps not as nicely as he should have.

Louis didn’t take offence. “Oh, please. My father asked me – it was like he smelled that I had been ‘tainted’ by a man,” he said. “He dragged me to the church first thing in the morning. And I just looked at the place, saw the people there who didn’t believe that a love between two men – or women – could be pure. I got enough of it.” He looked at him with burning intensity in his eyes. “After all, how can you move your mouth in a prayer for forgiveness when you fully intend to sin again?”

Harry surged. There was an inset on the wall, where he pressed the prince, to kiss him against the stone. “I’m coming with you,” he said, dazed. It sounded better every time he repeated it in his head. “ _We_ are leaving. Together.” A huge smile tugged at the muscles of his cheeks, and he let it widen. “Well, now that I have completely, irrevocably and without remorse compromised your virtue, I, according to all rules and my responsibility as a gentleman, shall have to marry you.”

Louis stared at him. Harry knew he had recognized it as the joke it was, but had also heard the promise veiled in it. “Mr. Harold. How self-sacrificing of you.”

It was nice seeing him get bold. He had seen this side of him, that had been unfortunately snuffed out temporarily by the revelations and awakening, about his new sexuality and preference for the same gender. It was understandable, being pushed out of his comfort zone, forced to become uncomfortable of what he himself presented. It really was nice to see him gain what must have been his former confidence.

“Mr. Styles, actually,” he found himself saying. “Harry Styles.”

He heard Louis’ breath hitch. “Is that…?”

“It is what I identified myself as for the longest. It feels like I’m removing the part where it went wrong and restarting my life to try another solution.”

Harry placed his hand in his and squeezed. It was clear that Louis was not unaware of his looks but yet he was not aware of them enough to realize the power he had on him, the draw that tugged the pirate even stronger when he felt him entwine his smaller hand with his. Smooth but strong, fingers gripping his own and never letting go. They smiled at each other and fled down the hall, towards the door.

Beyond the door, there were was a set of winding stairs with damp granite steps that led down, their edges chipped by erosion and use. The midway was lost in darkness but right where the stairs disappeared from sight, was a slight glow of a torch that were set in intervals along the steps.

They took the stairs quickly, not risking getting caught even if it meant slipping and getting bruises. Their breathing was heavy and loud, and the illumination flickered in the airflow they carried with them as they passed them in hurry. From the bottom of the stairs, they had a better look at the wider corridor where a man was unconscious on the floor.

“Were we not supposed to be inconspicuous?” Harry asked. “Or did I forget something?”

Louis’ face was a mixture of annoyance and distress. “I panicked!”

“I am more panicked about the fact they haven’t raised an alarm yet. You would think they had more guards for a prisoner like me. Or is the King so arrogant he believes no one will escape his divine fortress?” He glanced at him. “No offence.”

“None taken.”

They look another few sets of stairs, this time wider, and skittered past the shallow landings from where a long and dark tunnel started left and right. Their steps were even louder, perhaps because of the vaster space for the echo of their feet connecting with the granite tile. The large door, once they reached it, opened to the courtyard and they breathed a sigh of relief.

Neither of them noticed the curtain fluttering in a window high above, and the suggestion of a woman’s face behind the glass. The woman brought a hand to her lips and smiled secretively, knowing that it would be a long while before any of the guards returned to their gun platforms from the northern end of the castle where she had ordered them to in the name of a security breach. She just continued to gaze at the grounds and the shapes of his firstborn and his source of happiness run across the shadowy courtyard.

 

                                                                                                                   

 

“In here!”

Louis looked at the pointed place in confusion. The house’s windows were greyed with age but he trusted Harry’s sense of direction, and ducked inside through the heavy front door. The inside of the house was cluttered. Volumes stood on the shelves lining the walls between the paintings, knee-high statues littered the floor, made from everything imaginable from gold to marble. It was just a small two-room space, most of which was taken by an old piano, and the walls so occupied he couldn’t tell what colour they were. On several tables were oil lamps, spear points, Greek amphora, and miniature golden statues from Egypt. Louis truly hoped they had all been gained legally. There was a woman behind the desk, clad in black from head to toe. A widow.

Harry had moved into the light as well, looking less impressed by what they were surrounded with. And only when he opened his mouth, Louis realized it was because he had been there before—or not exactly. “It’s lovely to see such beauty again, Mrs. Swift. To be honest, I had wished to find you in Yarmouth but it seems your business had moved to more generous seas.”

Louis shot a suspicious look at him under his lashes at the honey sweet tone his voice had taken. The woman behind the desk didn’t get the memo, though. “And you haven’t changed a day, dear Harry,” she crooned right back. “What brings you here?”

If it was possible, Harry’s smile only grew. “I am interested in a _certain_ painting.”

“Ah,” the woman said, as though she had understood the stress on the one word. “I can assure you it’s in most perfect condition.” She turned to disappear to the second room. “Right this way.”

But Harry didn’t follow. His eyes were focused on the piano like it had personally offended him, not alike how he had looked at his own sister. As a minute-decision, Louis walked past him to the piano, gauging his expression every once in a while, and lifted the lid which let out a soft creak.

It revealed a large row of ivory keys he couldn’t separate from one another but was sure that to someone, they already held the root of great melody. He pressed one, randomly chosen, and the voice that came out was deep and sufficiently in tune. He could feel it vibrating inside the instrument. Then, he looked back at the pirate currently warring with himself in his mind, caught somewhere between wanting to run and forcing himself to come nearer, and pressed several keys at the same time. The result was expectedly rough and ear-splitting in the small room.

And while his eyes were on the keys, concentrated on playing an absent note here and there, a hand covered his, fingers unconsciously searching for their respective places already. They played the same chords Louis had but the sound was nothing like the one that had earlier echoed through the room. His touch was softer, for instance, like he expected the bars to burn him. And, at last, he let his fingers dance across it like a spider on its web and stringed together a soft, sorrowful melody that might have been a bit rusty as an entirety after the years of not playing but it was still very exquisite...

And when he wasn’t too distracted by Harry—his curls falling down, him biting hip lip, or crunching his nose—he noticed it was the tune of his lullaby. Had he remembered it that well? Or had it been already familiar to him? He blinked away the stinging in the back of his eyes and put his chin on his shoulder.

“I didn’t even know that was still tuned,” said a voice. Mrs Swift, having returned with the painting, stood on the doorway, watching them with an expression he could not read. Actually, she could have been standing there for a long time, but she didn’t look alarmed by seeing to men obviously in love.

The painting was wrapped in brown paper. Harry took it from her, wishing a good day quickly. The woman looked sceptical, perhaps now realizing their business in London might not be legal—Louis wondered how much she knew—but let them go when a woman entered the room, through the back.

They stepped out. The Thames glittered steel grey in front of them, the streets were silent, but the pier was ever busy. Some animal’s claws were tearing Louis’ insides. Harry glanced at him a few times but looked away as soon as he got caught.

“What?” he asked, noticing a peculiar smile on him. At least he did not look like he had looked back at the shop—the look of someone who can’t keep themselves from waiting for something to be snatched back when they have happiness offered to them.

“You are jealous.” The pirate looked far too smug about it for Louis’ liking. “You have no reason to be,” he finished more seriously.

“Who was she then?”

“Someone who owed me. I saved her from a loveless marriage, quite accidentally,” he elaborated when Louis lifted his brows. “Do you remember the woman that came in? They are in love. The black dress in just a decoy. She always did possess a dramatic streak.”

The piers spread right in front of them. No one really gave them a second glance, but Louis felt uncomfortable. So did Harry. “We should get rid of these clothes,” the pirate said. “A merchant ship might take us aboard If look like art traders.” They stepped on the planking of the dock. Louis sensed Harry tense beside him, coming to a screeching halt. “Is that—?”

Now Louis stopped as well, having caught the sight of a familiar figure kneeling at the end of the dock. Liam. “What is he doing here?”

“I don’t know. But luck might still be on our side.” They set forward again. Louis felt his palms sweating. Harry gave him a few looks.

“What?” Louis urged.

“I just wondered if you are comfortable with them knowing about us,” Harry told him sincerely. He seemed to find the boards really interesting. “You went tense.”

“Only because I wondered if you wanted them to know.” Louis’ voice was shaky, and his heart was pounding as erratically due to the novelty of the situation. It skipped a beat when a large and warm hand entwined with his. “Do you?”

“I do.”

Liam’s figure came closer. Louis was glad to note he seemed unharmed; face as tan and friendly as ever, hair swept away from his forehead. The quartermaster did have this air to him, about his hunched shoulders, like he had lost someone close to him; and for a moment, Louis let his fear run wild. Zayn? Niall? Ed? Their footsteps alerted the kneeling pirate first, and he tensed when the two of them came within hundred feet. Louis saw his biceps flex in readiness, but when he turned around, his eyes widened—

And soon harry was clutched in a rib-crushing bear hug. Liam’s face was pressed into Harry’s shoulder, who seemed to have frozen, and right at that moment Liam seemed more afraid _for_ the pirate and less afraid _of_ him. But that was until he launched himself a feet away or so. Louis couldn’t tell who was more shocked by Liam’s actions: Harry or the quartermaster himself. “Oh God,” he said. “Sorry, I just. We all thought you were…”

Louis felt horrible. When the crew had returned to the ship, and found the two of them absent, had their conclusion really been that only their captain was caught? Did they truly trust him so little they thought he had just decided not to return? Without goodbye?

But then Liam’s wandering, slightly less disbelieving eyes found their still clasped at them. “Wait. You—you’re really,” he stammered, and did a gesture with his hands that didn’t go along with any sort of universal gesture. “You’re rally together? I thought the guys were pulling one on me.”

Harry, still shaken, managed a smile. “Yes. How did you get here?”

Liam looked like he couldn’t contain his excitement. He gestured to a ship that laid at anchor a few hundred feet away from the piers. “See that one over there? I captured it!” he exclaimed. “With the crew, of course. C’mon, let’s get you there. I can’t wait for you to see it.” He kneeled again and tugged at the rope that tied the boat to the wooden support. “Jump in. Quick. All these frigates and royals are making me anxious.”

Louis caught Harry’s gaze, both turning to cover their smiles. If he only knew he had sailed with two men of royal blood with him for eight months. And at that moment, he realized what they were supposed to jump in, and why Liam had been kneeling. There was a rowboat floating in the river beside the dock, which they boarded. Liam told them they were able to gather a nearly complete crew, after the authorities had commandeered _Queen Anne’s Revenge_. Most crew had been too spooked to return, and Liam, as the quartermaster, had had to take control and recruit.

He started rowing the boat, all the while telling them what they had missed. “Yeah, we found your hat on this one square. It’s a bit battered. Looks like about a dozen horses trampled on it. Do you have an idea how that might have happened?”

“You are better off not knowing,” said Harry, although he did not seem bothered by it. His body, pressed to Louis’ from knee to shoulders, was relaxed and comfortingly solid. “And I don’t need it back. Unfortunately, you are going to have to find a new captain.” He looked at Louis softly.

“Right now? Are you leaving somewhere?” Liam seemed baffled, and lost his rhythm. The oars scooped thin air. “Who will you give your vote to? I think I might give mine to Zayn.”

“Zayn is not the captain material,” Harry said. “I was thinking of you, actually.”

 _“Me?”_ Liam seemed to have forgotten all about the rowing at that point. “But—I’m not as smart as you are.”

Harry laughed, which seemed to both please and baffle Liam even further. “But you have Zayn,” he told the quartermaster, and now possibly the future captain. “I wouldn’t have been half as successful, if it wasn’t for him.”

Liam nodded seriously at that. The boat gained speed again at Liam’s restarted powerful pulls. Soon, the new ship loomed regal over them, its hull was a few shades lighter than that of _Queen Anne’s Revenge_. They rose up the ladder on the side of it, stepping on the deck where they were greeted by the sight of the amazed crew. Louis could only stand still when the two of them became surrounded by the crew.

“Tommo!” Niall cried as soon as he reached him and pulled him into a tight hug. Behind his back, coat brushing against his, was Harry, caught in a similarly tight embrace by Zayn. After that it was just a crewmember after crewmember until they created a tight-knit group of pirates at the centre of the deck.

“Never,” he heard Zayn complain, “never go traipsing to save anyone’s ass without me. Is that clear?” He clapped Harry’s back a bit too forcefully to come off as congratulating. “We didn’t name her yet, by the way. Thought you should do the honours.”

Louis turned to gauge his reaction in time to see Harry looking around at the silent city around them, and to the East where the river met the Channel—and then his eyes flitted past it to Louis. What came out of his mind was not something he had expected to hear.

 _“Liberté,”_ he said with confidence. “For being freed.”

The crew around them jeered. Only Lois knew the deeper meaning of it, of what he had been truly freed of, and they shared a meaningful look, not going unnoticed by those nearest to them. Louis ignored them. It was easy; his vision had tunnelled. He touched Harry’s face with his fingertips, touched the bruise where the gun had hit him; touched his cheek where another bruise was, and hated he didn’t know what had caused it; grazed his fingertips all over his features, but they seemed to gravitate towards the taller man’s lips where there was a small, healing cut.

He reached to kiss it away. It was slow and sweet, but the hot pressure of Harry’s lips would never get less exhilarating. Maybe their relationship would never run smooth, Louis thought, and it definitely wouldn’t be perfect. But as Zayn had once said: the secret is to not seek for dominance. It is to give yourself up and trust the tides to bring you were you want. If Harry was the sea, Louis was the ship sailing along its currents.

They would travel. Travel far and close, and while wishing their way would cross Versailles sometime was farfetched—admitting you were wrong was even harder than giving up a grudge, after all—he could still hope. They came up for air, and found the others struggling to find somewhere to look at. Louis smirked.

“What do you love about me most?” he breathed again Harry’s lips.

Harry, seemingly surprised by the question, though pleased, said, “I like that whatever the situation was, no matter how terrified, or amazed you were, you still were able to show me my shortcomings in very scathing tones.”

“How is that,” he started to argue, but Harry kissed his chin softly, and Louis forgot he was going to say something.

“Huh,” Harry said, retreating.

“What?”

Harry’s thumb grazed his chin. “You have scruff.”

Louis’ hand fled to his jaw and true enough, there, under his lower lip, was some fine hair. He grinned, “Finally you can stop calling me a child!”

“That is what a child would say,” he pointed out, not really serious.

They might have kissed again—or went to find a secluded corner for themselves; the opportunities were endless—had it not been for a voice asking carefully: “Do we have a heading?”

Harry nodded. The crew still felt the need to report to him, it seemed, and that was one of the signs that told Louis the pirate had been a well-respected captain who they trusted. He reached his arm out for Liam, who gave him the painting, before the pirate bent to tear the wrapping off the painting. He asked for a knife, all the while the crew were leaning gradually closer to catch a look of it. Harry broke the frame mercilessly, took the knife and, now more carefully, extracted the canvas.

Or the upper one. The one underneath showed a painting of a woman, and Louis along with everyone else was confused as to how she would tell them their heading. But then, Harry turned the canvas in his hands around—and they all froze.

Dots, latitudes, longitudes, and names littered its surface. A treasure map hidden in a painting? Surely not. But it did seem so. The pirate kneeling in the middle of them looked proud, and Louis started to suspect he was terribly proud of his little trick. Louis, still slightly miffed my Mrs. Swifts involvement in it all, refused to be impressed. But failed.

 “I’ll retrieve my share of the treasure,” Harry told the crew. He turned to Louis, and tapped the map with a big grin on his face. “What do ya say about buying an estate in Venice?”

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!  
> 8h late? Curse my perfectionist tendencies!!  
> First I would like to thank you those who got hooked since the first chapter I posted around August 2015, and bore with me through this mad project. Two times longer than my usual fics? What was I thinking!?  
> The second thank you goes to anyone who bookmarked, subscribed, commented or took the time to find me on Tumblr. You. Are. The. Best. And I love each and every one of you, because you are those who kept my writing.
> 
> Good luck for finals, exams, whatever you might have. If I managed to finish this, you'll live through those too! xx -M

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to write a pirate au since March so here it is. Don't have a schedule with this but I'm not going to leave you hanging for a month, either.  
> Kudos? Thoughts? Wanna say hello on tumblr (larriebane)?
> 
> Have a lovely day! .xx -M


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